


Prompt Dump - Napollya

by fineandwittie



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Attempted Seduction, Bisexuality, Breakfast in Bed, Can I retag angst? because chapter 11 is very angsty, Chapter Twelve is just straight up porn, Chess, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Crying During Sex, Crying Kink, Declarations Of Love, Drugged!Napoleon, Embarrassment Kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhibitionism, First Dates, Forced Prostitution, France - Freeform, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know why that should be a tag, Illya is always right, Internalized Homophobia, Jealous!Illya, Jealous!Napoleon, Language Barrier, M/M, MOAR WHUMP, Major character death - Freeform, Mentions of Rape, Mirror Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Napoleon goes to prison, Napoleon is a Womanizer, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Porn, Prison camps, Prompt dump, Prostitution, Public Nudity, Public Sex, References to the holocaust, Rimming, THRUSH, The boys disappear, Theft, Thief!Illya, Thief!Napoleon, To Catch A Thief - Freeform, Torture, Triggers, Tumblr Prompt, Underage Prostitution, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Voyeurism, Waiting, Whump!Gaby, Whump!Illya, Whump!Napoleon, Wrestling scene redo, and boy is he happy to be wrong, but it is and it applies so there you go, detectives!au, except when he's wrong, giving up control, gulag, kind of?, modern!AU, nude photographs, possessive!illya, self-destructive behaviour, song prompt, song!fic, such porn, unhealthy response to grief, unprovoked violence, unrelated one shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:43:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fineandwittie/pseuds/fineandwittie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A catch-basin for my MFU tumblr prompt fills.  As of now, I am done with writing for this fandom. Wait until the next time I rewatch MFU, because it will happen and it will make me want to write my boys again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There's a first time for everything

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr Prompt: for the Napollya prompts, how about first date :D also a top!Napolleon would be nice
> 
> Or
> 
> The one in which Napoleon and Illya, after months of fucking, finally managed to squeeze in an actual date.

“Cowboy, we have been sleeping together for months. What is it that you need to prove?”

They were in Paris, taking care of a little information drop. Gaby was back in England, for once. Napoleon leaned back in his chair and rolled his eyes. The street cafe he’d chosen was one of the best-kept secrets in the city. The food was mouthwatering and the espresso…Napoleon swore it tasted like liquid gold. 

“Peril, relax. I wanted to take you out. Can’t I do that? Is that not allowed?” Napoleon huffed dramatically, but something deep in his gut twisted. “Do you only want to spend time with me when we’re…” He waved a hand in an awkward gesture. They were in a public place, after all, and for all that the French were lovers, it was still illegal, even here. “Or on assignment? Really, Peril. I thought I was growing on you.”

Illya snorted. “Like bad fungus.” Napoleon’s nostrils flared and he blinked once, before a wide smile stretched his mouth. Illya narrowed his eyes. “No, Cowboy, you irritate me until I smash things, but I still enjoy your company. Did not know you wished to…date?”

The smile eased to something more genuine and some of the tension slipped out of the American’s shoulders. “Hmm. Yes, I suppose this could be considered our first date, couldn’t it?”

Illya wrinkled his nose, taking a bite of his sandwich to delay having to respond. When he finally swallowed, he ventured a question. “What happens on date like this?”

Napoleon shrugged. “You know? I’m not quite sure. I’ve never really been on an actual date before. Not with someone I actually…liked.”

Illya frowned at him, examining him. “No date? Ever? Even with woman?”

Napoleon shrugged again and shook his head. “I was 16 when I joined the army. Before that I worked odd jobs to help my family and I went to school. There wasn’t much time for anything else. I was in the army for seven years. I served in two active war zones. There wasn’t much time then either. After, I was busy not getting caught by the law and then with the CIA. Anyone I went out with was a mark, for show, or involved in whatever I was doing somehow. A partner, or enemy, or related to someone important.”

Illya’s frown had grown fiercer. “You have never had date before?”

Napoleon narrowed his eyes at the repeated query. “I just said that, Peril. Are you going hard of hearing?”

Illya snorted again. “Nyet. I am…amazed. You are Napoleon Solo, infamous womanizer. It is in your file. Yet, you have never been on date before. Confusing.”

The American flushed a little and looked away, down the street at the rain-spotted cobbles. “And I suppose you’ve been on hundreds of dates then.”

“Da. I have been on many dates, but only with women. I did not know men dated.”

Napoleon looked around shiftily, but they were alone outside. The other patrons had been driven to seek shelter from the rain, but the two spies had merely dried off their chairs and opened Illya’s giant umbrella to sit under until the rain stopped. It had only taken ten minutes. So far, no one else had ventured back out. 

“You do know that this…what we have. It’s illegal in France, England, and America. We could be put in jail or fined for it.” Napoleon eyed his partner with interest.

Illya raised his eyebrows. “In Russia, we would be executed or thrown into Gulag for it.”

Napoleon blinked. “Oh. Well…that’s…put things into perspective.”

Illya chuckled. “Da. What is it that you planned for date?”

The other chewed his lip. “Well…I really just wanted to bring you to this cafe. I stop here every time I’m in Paris, if I can manage, and I wanted to share it with you.”

“Are you in Paris often? Were you, before?”

Napoleon looked thoughtfully at the first shoppers emerging from doorways, now that the rain had stopped. “Now? No. We spend most of our time together or with Gaby now, Peril, so you exactly how often I’m in Paris now. Before? The year I spent…dealing in art? I spent nearly half of it here. I have a small apartment that no one knows about in the city. It’s hardly more than an attic, but the view is spectacular. I was going to show it to you, after lunch. I was rather hoping that we could…spend the night there. Then, while I was with the CIA exclusively, I would try to make it here once or twice a year.”

Illya watched him speak, a small smile flittering at the edges of his mouth. “Why do you not speak French, then?”

Napoleon blinked. “Je parle parfaitement le français.” 

Illya sighed. “You did not tell.”

Napoleon’s lips curled into a smirk. “I speak more languages than my file says I do.”

He met the Russian’s gaze for a long moment before the blond smiled. “I will enjoy finding out which. I am pleased that you speak Russian.”

Switching to Russian, Napoleon replied, “You speak English incredibly well, even if you do seem to forget that articles exist. If you’d prefer we speak Russian, I’m comfortable with that.”

Illya laughed. “Your accent, Cowboy. Is hilarious.”

Grumbling, Napoleon refocused on finishing his food. The two chatted ideally about cases they’d worked at their respective agencies. Napoleon told the story of impersonating a priest. Illya related his own tale of becoming a champion in SAMBO, which he’d originally undertaken to infiltrate a smuggling ring.

After they’d finished eating, the two wandered the city for a few hours. So rarely did they have time to themselves and the inclination to simply explore wherever they were. Napoleon clearly was very familiar with it. Illya had never been to Paris before. They stopped by Napoleon’s favorite bakery for a loaf of bread. The owner, a small French woman with an easy smile and sharp eyes, hugged the American tightly. She whispered something in French in his ear that made him flush scarlet and pressed a bottle of red wine into his hands, before sending them on their way. Her knowing smirk followed them the three blocks to Napoleon’s apartment. 

“What did she say?” Illya wanted to know, as they climbed five flights of stairs. 

Napoleon went pink again. “Um…She told me that I’d better fuck you, because if you’re that big all over, you’d tear me in two if you tried to fuck me. She’s always been rather…colorful, but I’ve never heard her say something that…direct before.”

Illya let out a suddenly sharp bark of laughter before slapping a hand over his own mouth. He swallowed and dropped his hand as Napoleon unlocked his door. “That’s…not true at all. But if you’d like to fuck me, after lovely date, I willing offer my приклад.”

Now it was Napoleon’s turn to laugh. He turned, his steps light and his face filled with such unbearable warmth and tenderness that Illya had to look away. “I quite like your приклад and I would thoroughly enjoy plundering it tonight.” He snatched up Illya’s hands and tugged his forward into a teasing kiss. “I’ll lick you open, until you’re dripping and loose, and then I’ll fuck you until you cry, моя любовь. What do you think?”

Illya tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow a groan. He growled, scooped Napoleon up into his arms, and kicked the door shut. “I will hold you to that, Cowboy.”


	2. The Green Eyed Monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: can you write this modern au, both napoleon and illya are detectives napoleon is jealous of illya's ex boyfriend. since he knows illya cared for him very much. so napoleon is very rude and saracastic to him when they meet accidentally. but later everything works out as illya assures solo that he is the only one he loves. just a fluffy, humorous fic.
> 
> Or the one in which Napoleon gets snappish and ends up getting exactly what he wants.

“We’re going where?” Napoleon was positive that he’d heard wrong. 

Illya glanced at him sideways with a frown, his grip on the wheel tightened. “We’re going to Alexander’s office. We need an answer to a legal question on the Johnson case and he’s a lawyer. We won’t even have to pay anything for it. Is this going to be a problem?”

Napoleon breathed in through his nose and shook his head. He looked down at the phone in his hands and opened Facebook to avoid having to respond further. Alexander Waverly was a big time lawyer, who seemed to know everyone in the city. More importantly, he was Illya’s ex-boyfriend. They’d broken things off a little over three months before, amicably, and Napoleon’s heart felt like it was twisting into a knot every time Illya mentioned Waverly. The possibility of them getting back together hovered in the back of Napoleon’s mind constantly. The very idea was keeping him up at night. 

Napoleon Solo, detective with the NYPD and infamous playboy, had been in love with his partner for years. Illya Kuryakin, whose family had immigrated to the city from Russia, was a looming tower and violent rage and passionate love. When he fell into a relationship, he gave himself up to it wholeheartedly. Napoleon, in the time they’d been partnered, had watched this happen no less than four times. The first short-lived fling was with the one of the DA’s assistants, Gaby Teller. The second with a woman nearly has tall as Illya himself, named Victoria. Her last name was some horrible to spell Italian thing. He’d then, to Napoleon’s stunned dismay, taken up with Victoria’s brother, Alexander. Finally, two years ago, Illya had met and started dating Waverly. Napoleon had throw himself into short flings and one-night-stands to the point where even Illya seemed worried about his overdeveloped sex life.

He’d managed to survive six months like that, without contracting anything, but he’d given it up as a bad job. He hadn’t sleep with anyone since. 

When Illya had casually mentioned that he and Waverly had split, Napoleon figured, it was now or never. He’d wait a bit and then make his move. Except now they were going to see Waverly and maybe Illya and he weren’t as split as Napoleon had thought. 

This was going to be awful.

The office was elegant and well appointed. Napoleon hated it immediately. Waverly, who Napoleon had never even met and about whom he knew a great deal, was also elegant and well appointed. He was slightly older than Napoleon was expecting, but he had a wide smile and laughing eyes. Of course Napoleon hated him immediately too. His fingers itched to punch that stupid smile right off his face.

Illya and he greeted each other like the best of friends. Waverly even dropped a careless kiss on Illya’s mouth. Napoleon’s palms stung and he realized that he was digging his nails into them. He released his fists and forced the unwanted emotions away. He smiled graciously at the lawyer and held out a hand. “Napoleon Solo, Illya’s partner. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

If he stressed the sentiment a little to much to be sincere? Well, Illya didn’t seem to notice.

Waverly smiled back, wider than before, and his eyes flicked briefly to Illya. “Alexander Waverly, but of course, I’ve heard all about you, Napoleon.”

Napoleon flinched. “Only my mother calls me Napoleon. It’s just Solo.”

“Of course. What can I do for you both?”

Napoleon’s mouth curled into a smirk, but he couldn’t seem to control the look in his eyes. Waverly was eyeing him with a slight frown. “Illya seemed to think that you could answer a legal question for us. Your closing record might say otherwise, but who am I to judge?”

Illya turned to him with a scowl and Waverly blinked. “I am generally the researcher on the team. My law partners close all of our cases. I specialize in evidence and obscure legal loopholes. What was your question?”

Illya asked and Napoleon tuned him out. He glanced around the office. The colors were a bit drab now that he looked more closely and everything appeared to be several years old.

When Napoleon turned back, Illya was nodding and smiling, a small genuine smile that lit up his eyes. Napoleon’s nostrils flared and he tried to fight down the surge of jealousy and pain that threatened to choke him. 

Illya and Waverly were saying their goodbyes. When the lawyer turned to Napoleon to shake hands, Napoleon crossed his arms over his chest and offered a tight smile that spoke more of violence than happiness.

Waverly blinked rapidly and withdrew his hand. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

As soon as the outer door of the office closed, Illya rounded on him. “What was that?”

Napoleon looked away. “I don’t know what you mean? Can we interview witnesses now? Like we were supposed to be doing?”

Illya narrowed his eyes. “You know exactly what I mean. You were extremely rude to Alexander.”

Napoleon twitched. He stared at Illya for a moment, whose anger was slowly morphing into confusion, before he turned and walked away. Illya’s longer legs meant it was no trouble for him to catch up, but Napoleon refuse to answer his repeated questions. Finally, outside Illya grabbed Napoleon’s arm and pulled him to a stop. “Cowboy, what is wrong? What is going on?”

At the nickname, Napoleon deflated. He sighed and gritted his teeth. “Can’t I just not like someone? Is that not allowed?” His tone was low and vicious and he regretted it immediately.

Illya blinked and jerked back as though he’d been slapped. “I…I have no control over who you like or not, but that is not what this is about. What is wrong with you? You snap at Alexander, you refuse to shake his hand and you insult his professional reputation? I’ve never seen you treat someone like that before. Especially not someone you just met. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous, but that’s…”

Napoleon flinched, couldn’t hide or control the reaction, not with Illya still touching him. Illya fell silent and stared at him with wide eyes. 

“That’s it, isn’t it? You’re jealous? Why?”

Napoleon let out a bitter laugh. “How did you ever become a detective, Peril? You’ve got to be the least observant person I’ve ever met. Yes, I’m jealous. I’m always jealous. It was…easier when you were dating women. I thought it was all hopeless because you were straight and that was that. But then Victoria’s brother? And then Waverly? What’s wrong with me, then? What am I missing that you just…What do they give you that I can’t?” He snapped his mouth shut, breathing heavily through clenched teeth.

Illya was gaping at him. “Napoleon, you—“

“I’m sorry. I didn’t…I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. My mother always told me that I’d never be the kind of guy anyone wants to bring home. All I’ll ever be was the quick, dirty fuck in a back alley. I suppose she was right. No one had ever thought I was good enough to be in a relationship with. I don’t know why I thought you might be different. I'm sorry.”

Napoleon managed to plastered a pained smile on his face, but when he looked up Illya was frowning at him fiercely. God, he thought desperately, I’ve fucked this up.

Illya reached up and cradled Napoleon’s face in both his enormous hands. Napoleon had a moment to feel absolutely dwarfed by his partner before Illya was kissing him, gently. With such tenderness Napoleon felt tears prickle at the back of his eyes. He wasn’t sure if this was some kind of fucked up goodbye, an apology, or something else entirely, but he clung to Illya, trying to memorize every moment, every sensation.

After a few beats, Illya pulled back and rested their foreheads together. “Cowboy, you’re the reason I broke up with Waverly in the first place. He saw that I was achingly, hopelessly in love with you. But I thought that you…that is…you sleep with so many women. I never thought you’d…”

Napoleon laughed, helpless and a little damp around the edges. “We’re hopeless. My god.” He pulled Illya down for another short kiss. “Peril, I absolutely adore you. We’ve got work to do. Have dinner with me after?”

Illya snorted. “I absolutely adore you too, Cowboy. And Yes, I'll have dinner with you. If you cook.”

“Sure thing.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for Hank, who left me a prompt. :D I hope you like it. It's more about Napoleon than Illya, but it is song inspired.

Illya is on the floor in the bedroom when Napoleon gets back to the apartment. He’s surround by broken glass and splinters of wood. He’s curled up, head tucked into his knees, arms around his calves. And he’s rocking gently back and forth. Napoleon has never seen this kind of reaction before. The episodes, sure. They’re all used to the episodes, but this?

“Peril? What happened? Are you alright?”

Illya lifted his head and looked up. Napoleon nearly flinched back. There was nothing in his eyes. No emotion, no personality, the eyes of a corpse. “Waverly called.”

Napoleon stepped carefully into the room and crouched down next to Illya. “Yes?”

“Sanders is taking you back.”

Napoleon blinked. “What?”

“The CIA found out that we…share apartment. They are worried about your loyalties, which they seem to think were suspect to begin with. They demanded you back, to finish out prison sentence.”

The breath stopped in Napoleon’s lungs. “Prison sentence?”

“According to Sanders, you have two years left of sentence and you will serve it in prison.” Napoleon choked and pitched forward, Illya surging up to catch him. “Is my fault. All of it. I am so sorry, Napoleon. I am—“

“No!” Napoleon’s hand clenched fiercely into the material of Illya’s shirt. He pulled back to look the Russian in the eye. “No. This is not your fault.”

Illya shook his head. “All this mess that I make…you pay for it. Is my fault. Napoleon, I—“

Napoleon stopped his mouth this time with a kiss. Desperate and hungry and halfway through Illya started crying. Somehow, Napoleon managed to get them up off the floor and into the decoy bedroom to collapse on the bed. They laid together, shaking and clinging and whispering promises to one another until they finally drift off in the early hours of the morning. The sun streaming in through the window the next morning woke Napoleon. Illya slept on and Napoleon let him. He showered, shaved carefully, and dressed. He walked slowly through the apartment, lingered in their bedroom where the shattered glass sparkled in the morning light. He didn’t cry. He didn’t let himself feel anything. He wouldn’t be feeling anything at all for a very long time.

Illya woke an hour after Napoleon. He’d returned to bed and was sitting up, running a hand through Illya’s hair. Illya blinked awake and the minute his beautiful blue eyes took in Napoleon’s state of dress, they filled with tears. “Cowboy, I—“

“No more apologies, Illya. We don’t have time for it anyway. I’m sure the CIA will be here soon. I…Before, I wanted you to know that I…I love you so much that it sometimes terrifies me, what I’d do for you if you asked me to. I don’t regret a moment that I spent with you and I’d gladly spend a lifetime in the gulag if that was the price I had to pay for you.”

Illya choked and surged up off the bed. He wrapped himself around Napoleon and slipped into Russian. “I love you more than anything else in this world or any other. I love you until the sun dies and the oceans dry to dust. I will never stop. When they release you, I will be here, waiting for you. The only thing that will stop me is death. If you are released and you come home and I am not there? Then I am dead. This, I swear to you, on my soul.”

Napoleon swallowed thickly. his throat tight and a prickling sensation behind his eyes. “I’ll remember, Illyushka.”

He pulled Illya in for a heartbreakingly tender kiss and there was a knock at the door. “CIA. Open the door!”

————————————————

Two years in prison was an extremely long time, Napoleon Solo knew. It was time enough for people to die, to forget that he existed, to find someone else to love. That last had settled in his chest like a disease, festering and raw. Illya might have moved on. He remembered every syllable of the Russian’s vow, but two years was a very long time.

He did not tell Illya that he had been released. He wanted to come home on his own, just like Illya had said he would. He told himself that that was it, that he didn’t want to catch Illya out. That he wasn’t testing the man. 

He had gotten very good at lying to himself in the past two years. 

The apartment was as he remembered it. But the bedroom that he and Illya has shared was _exactly_ as he’d left it. Splintered and covered in broken glass. He frowned at it. Why had Illya left it like this? Had he moved out of the apartment?

But no, there was no dust anywhere and there had been dirty pots in the kitchen sink. He went to the second bedroom. The bed was made, but had clearly been slept in recently. The closet was filled with their clothing. He sighed to see the beautiful suits he’d missed.

He changed into trousers, but needed a belt to hold them up. The shirt hung off him. He’d lost weight, both in fat and muscle. He had a brief flare of panic. What if Illya found him repulsive now? Diminished and weak? He was no longer the suave polished operative that he had been. What would he even do now? Waverly wouldn’t want a felon who’d served time working for him. What—

The front door opened and then closed. Someone stepped inside and then froze. Napoleon held his breath and stepped to the doorway. Illya stood just inside the doorway, gun out and eyes narrowed. He looked up to see Napoleon standing there and put the gun down on a nearby end table immediately. He stepped forward once, twice, and then his long legs closed the space between them. Napoleon found himself in Illya’s arms for the first time in two year.

Napoleon was home. He wept.


	4. This one is tiny.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: How about a ficlet where Illya is trying to seduce Napoleon by mimicking all his techniques? The suits, making him nice food, the flirting, everything. Napoleon however doesn't realise what's happening, thinks he's just rubbing off on Illya. Illya would rather he be ACTUALLY rubbing off on him.

Illya opens the door for Napoleon, who catches sight of Illy’a clothing (a beautifully tailored, bespoke suit) and grins widely. The spread on the dining table is sumptuous, even by Western standards. Illya had actually cringed, preparing one or two of those dishes. He’d been flirting aggressively with Napoleon for the past few weeks. 

Napoleon was either denser than Illya had suspected or he was reading this situation very wrong. 

Illya had been told once that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but it did not seem to be working.

They managed it all the way through the meal without Napoleon giving even the slightest indication of realizing. 

Finally Illya cracked. Really, could you blame him? Napoleon made some comment about his sophisticated tastes finally rubbing off on Illya.

Illya made a frustrated noise and threw down his napkin. He leaned forward, met Napoleon’s eyes pointedly, and murmured in Russian, “I’d rather be rubbing off on you. Or rubbing one off for you. Whatever you like.”

Napoleon blinked at him, eyes wide. 

“But mostly, I’d like to slick up your cock and impale myself on it. Thoughts?”

Napoleon swallowed, visibly, before a smirk spread across his face. “I was wondering how long it would take you to explain what was going on. I assumed you had some kind of angle. Considering you absolutely hate dressing like that. And judging by the cost, some of these dishes would have been physically painful for you.”

Illya exhaled, a flush rising up his neck. “Da. Not the point. Sex?”

Napoleon cocked an eyebrow, then rolled his eyes. “All you had to do was say, Peril. For you? Love, I’m a sure thing.” He grinned and leaned across the table to pull Illya into a kiss.


	5. Mr. and Mr. Smith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: how about Illya trying to surprise Napoleon with breakfast in bed and they are interrupted by an assasination attempt? Illya looking crushed at the remains of the breakfast and Napoleon maybe eating off of the walls anyway or doing a version of the "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" scene of drinking juice out of partially broken glasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for Raveninflight. I enjoyed the idea of this. It's cute and fluffy.

Illya had tried. He really did. Normally, he was not one for romantic gestures or grand declarations. Napoleon was the one who could charm a smile with a few sincere words or steal Illya’s breath with some ridiculous evening. For their first anniversary, Napoleon had somehow manage to find both the first edition, printed in France, of _Invitation to a Beheading_ and the copies of the Russian magazines that it was originally serialized in. How Napoleon manage to scrounge together that many original editions, Illya still had no idea, but he kept them in plastic slip covers, in a drawer in the extra bedroom. On Illya’s last birthday, he’d come home to his favorite meal from back home, prepared to perfection and a soft Italian love song playing on the record player. Napoleon had stood in the kitchen, apron over his slacks and dress shirt, shirtsleeves rolled up, swaying. He sang the lyrics softly in perfectly accented Italian, the warm honey of his voice wrapping around Illya’s heart. 

And so, this morning, Illya had gotten up extra early. It was Napoleon’s birthday and he had plans. He’d made a traditional Irish breakfast, like Napoleon’s mother used to do when he was very little. Napoleon had described it once, wistfully. When Illya had pressed for details, the American had laughed, a sad sound, and explained that he’d been barely eight when his mother finally died and he’d been five when she’d gotten sick. He barely remembered her healthy, never mind the specifics of what she cooked.

So Illya had done his research. One of the girls in the secretarial pool was from Ireland. When he’d explain that he was trying to surprise a friend, she’d smiled warmly at him and given him explicit instructions on how to make everything.

So he’d prepared it all, down to the blood pudding, which was disgusting and he sincerely hoped Napoleon wouldn’t eat it. He’d plated everything and piled it all up on a giant tray. He carried it in to Napoleon, who was still sleeping, his breath gentle huffs in the quiet. Illya had paused briefly, watching his partner. He’d laid the tray down on the bed and woken Napoleon with a gentle kiss.

“Happy birthday, моя любовь.”

Napoleon had blinked awake, smiled sleepily, and looked around vaguely at the tray. When he caught sight of the food, his eyes had widened and he’d sat up. 

“Is that…?”

Illya grinned at him. “Yes. I tried to make it as authentic as possible.”

Napoleon had laughed, low and throaty. “It’s perfect.” He snagged a sausage and took a bite. “Thank you.” He smiled as he popped the end of the sausage into his mouth.

When he turned back to Illya, his eyes had slid past him and his face went blank. He’d twisted and in a blink, there was a gun in his hand, pointing over Illya’s shoulder. 

The fight that followed had been short, but destructive. The THRUSH agents, two of them, had been sent to kill them both. How they’d found the apartment was anyone’s guess, but Illy was quite sure they’d be moving in the near future.

When the two assassins were dead and Illya moved them to the tub, so as to not stain anything else with blood, he returned to the bedroom to find his meticulously prepared breakfast utterly destroyed. The tray had been swept off the bed at some point. It upended on the ground and food was splattered everywhere. The only things still on plates were a stack of toast and the blood pudding. Napoleon was sitting on the floor, next to the food, munching toast.

Illya sighed, frustrated, and slid down next to him. “I’m sorry. I tried.”

Napoleon smiled, his eyes dancing. “I know you did. It was a lovely, romantic gesture. I adore you. There’s still toast. And I’m sorry, but no matter how Irish it is, I am not eating that.”

He waved a hand at the plate of pudding. Illya sighed in relief. “Oh good. I was hoping you would not.”

Napoleon snorted and leaned forward, rewarding his Russian’s grand gesture with a kiss and, once he finished his toast, a couple of quick, dirty orgasms. After all, Illya still had plans. And now they needed to apartment-shop too.


	6. Wildest Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is for an anon on tumblr.
> 
> The prompt was just Wildest Dreams by Taylor Swift.

“He’s so fucking tall and handsome as hell.” Napoleon had told her one night, after they’d rescued him from a THRUSH lab. His head lolled on his neck and his eyes refused to focus. Whatever drugs they’d given him had loosened his tongue. She’d never heard him curse like this before. He usually spat vulgarities with a tight grin and a sharp edge to the look in his eye.

“He is so bad, but he does it so well.” Illya had muttered under his breath, in Russian, thinking she didn’t understand, as they watched Napoleon smile and smile and be a villain. He seduced some heiress into his bed, duplicated her house key, and stolen her husband’s business files. When Illya made his observation, Napoleon was sitting at dinner with that husband, the wife, and a few of the husband’s business associates. Napoleon had toed off his shoe and run his socked foot up the inside of the wife’s thigh, while he leaned in close to the husband to murmur something too low to hear.

When, after six years of working together as a team, Illya and Napoleon disappear, she is unsurprised. Waverly frowns at her and asks her why.

“I saw the end when this all began. I knew from the beginning that they’d be each other’s downfall. Everyone thought that Illya was interested in me. He never was. Heaven can’t help them now. All I can hope is that they will be careful and that they’ll remember me, fondly. That I might see them again sometime.”

Waverly doesn’t understand and she’s not going to explain. Illya and Napoleon, alone, were half completed paintings. They were a song with no lyrics or a book without an ending. Together? They formed a symphony, a classical masterpiece, the purest love story ever penned. Together, they were poisonous. Two predators tangled up in each other, devouring and being devoured until there’s nothing left at all. 

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin are perfect soulmates and mutual destruction. She hopes that they would not tear down the world when they shred each other to ribbons. She hopes that their love would be enough to calm the raging, Russian beast, to still the greedy thief’s fingers and his roving eye.

She aches desperately to see them again.

She begins seeing their shadows on missions, in London, at HQ. She can hear their footsteps, which is how she knows that it’s her imagination. For all their towering height, neither Napoleon nor Illya ever made a sound when they moved.

At night, when the moonlight casts streaks of silver over he bed and she can almost hear Napoleon’s throaty laugh or Illya’s soft chuckles, she weeps and remembers.


	7. Illya the Cameraman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon Prompt: The reason Illya locked himself away in the bathroom in the movie to develop the pictures was because he didn't just take pictures of the Vinceguerras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me longer than usual and got completely out of hand. But keep the prompts coming and I'll keep filling them. :D

Illya and Gaby continued the pretense the next morning by going out to breakfast. Napoleon, once Victoria had left, gave in to the itch in his fingers. The bathroom had been cleared of photo equipment, when he broke into Illya and Gaby’s hotel room. Illya was in that room for far too long, according to Gaby, to develop the scant few photographs that he had shown Napoleon the evening before. So where were the rest? And what was in them?

A meticulous search of Illya’s belongings turned up nothing. There were no extra photographs in Gaby’s bags either. However, Napoleon wasn’t an internationally renowned thief for nothing. He eyed each room carefully and finally noticed that, in the living room, the foldaway chess set had a shallow false bottom. Inside was a small stack of freshly developed color photographs. 

The photo on the top of the stack was of Victoria, but she was squeezed into the side of the frame. Napoleon himself filled up more of the image. He rolled his eyes. Peril was clearly a poor photographer, if he couldn’t even center an image. He flipped to the next picture. Another photograph of him, on an angle this time. And then another behind that. And another…

He flipped through every picture. They were all of him. Unease settled in his stomach. Was Illya spying on him? Taking photos to bring back to his handlers for some reason?

Except the neither of the last photographs would have served any purpose for the KGB. Both had been shot through the window of his hotel room. In fact, either photo might very well have landed Illya in some very hot water back in the USSR. Or in America, for that matter.

In the first, he was stretched out on the bed, backlit by the room’s soft lamp light. He was bracing himself on his arms, so as not to crush the body beneath him. The hotel clerk’s legs were wrapped around his waist and his back and buttocks were captured very clearly, flexing with effort. His face wasn’t visible to the camera. It wasn’t a blackmail image. The camera had caught him, focused on him, too lovingly. The lighting was bright enough to see, but soft enough to lend a sense of romance to the photo. Napoleon decided that Illya was really quite good. 

He flipped to the last one and his lips parted on a gasp. He was totally nude, facing the camera, standing near the balcony doors of his suite with his bathrobe unbelted and gaping carelessly. It looked as through Illya had used a zoom lens for this one, because it was closer and sharper than all the others. Napoleon blinked at it. His entire body was visible to the camera’s eye. His robe did absolutely nothing, except perhaps highlight what it did not obscure. 

He was still standing there, holding the final picture and trying to make sense of its existence, when Illya opened the door twenty minutes later. The Russian rolled his eyes when he caught sight of Napoleon. “Cowboy, do you ever…” But he trailed off into horrified silence when he saw what was in Napoleon’s hands.

Napoleon lifted the photo and flipped it around so Illya could see it. Those lovely blue eyes dropped to it and slid over the image, lingering briefly, before snapping up to meet Napoleon’s gaze again. There was shame there and terror, more emotion than Napoleon had ever seen in Illya’s face before.

“I’m trying to explain to myself why you would feel the need to photograph me obsessively. I thought perhaps you were spying, until I saw this picture. Because this? This is not blackmail material. Well, it’s not material that could be used to blackmail me, anyway.” 

Illya swallowed, visible and obviously painful. Napoleon tilted his head, suddenly glad that Gaby wasn’t there. Illya’s gaze flicked back to the photo. “Care to explain why you took a nude photograph of me, Peril? And why you can’t seem to stop looking at it?”

Illya solved the problem by closing his eyes. “I…I am sorry.” He stuttered out, face flushing a dull red and shame appearing in the slump of his shoulders.

Napoleon cocked an eyebrow and took a few steps closer. “Are you one of those kinds of men, Peril?”

Illya’s jaw worked for a moment, before he turns his face away. His eyes were still closed. Napoleon waited him out. Finally, after a prolonged silence, Illya frowned and opened his eyes. Napoleon pointedly and carefully, replaced the stack of pictures into their hidden compartment, the nude photograph visible on top. He shut the hidden door and straightened. 

Illya was staring at him in alarmed confusion when Napoleon turned to meet his gaze. With a smile curling at his mouth, Napoleon made his way, with studied carelessness to the desk chair and draped himself over it. He lounged there, with his legs splayed open, teasing. Illya’s expression closed off and his hands curled into trembling fists. The American opened his mouth to speak, when they both caught the sound of footsteps in the hallway, muffled by the carpeting. 

Napoleon turned to the machine on the desk, flipping it on and ignoring Illya. Napoleon wasn’t sure if Gaby’s timing was the worst or the best, but they had the mission to finish. They’d figure other things out later.

 

——————

 

After the scene on the balcony, Gaby wandered off after Waverly, looking for all the world like a neglected puppy. Napoleon snorted out a breath through his nose and pushed away any thought of the treacherous Ms. Teller. Illya was still there, lounging against the railing. Napoleon turned to him.

“So, Cameraman. Now that we know that we won’t be returning to our respective agencies anytime soon, should we perhaps address the elephant in the room?”

Illya flinched at the nickname and stiffened. “I have already apologized for that, Solo. If you are uncomfortable with me, then perhaps—“

“Does it look like I’m uncomfortable, Peril?” Napoleon moved closer and stressed the nickname. 

Illya blinked and turned finally to look at him. His gaze, usually so disciplined, traced over Napoleon’s body for a beat or two, before snapping to his face. Napoleon’s mouth was curling into a smirk. He reached up, one-handed, and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. He took the final mouthful of his drink, so he could place it back on the table. With both hands free, he shrugged out of the garment and tossed it over the back of the nearest chair, before loosening his tied.

Illya was staring at him, wide eyed and confused. His lips were parted and he was breathing, very carefully, through his mouth. Napoleon felt a bubble of giddy laughter in his throat, but clamped down on it. Illya looked like an overexcited puppy who was, perhaps, afraid it might get kicked for its exuberance. 

He pulled the tie from around his neck, dropping it over the waistcoat. He was half down the buttons of his shirt when Illya finally blinked, hard, as though he thought he might be hallucinating. Napoleon chuckled and finished unbuttoning the shirt. It went over the back of the chair.

He was bare chested and in clear view of anyone who might look up from below. He couldn’t care less. He dropped his hands to his belt. He unbuckled it, but left it in the loops of his pants. He undid the button on his trousers. The sound of the zip on his fly coming down finally woke Illya from whatever it was that had held him captive. 

The towering Russian lurked forward, reaching out to Napoleon, who was busy toeing off his shoes. Realizing what he was doing, Illya snatched his hand back as though burned, and looked around wildly. “What are you doing?” He hissed through clenched teeth. “You are in public. Anyone could see you.”

Napoleon laughed and pushed his trousers and boxer-briefs down his hips. Picking them up and adding them to the pile of clothing, he cocked an eyebrow at Illya, who was bright red and trying to look anywhere but at Napoleon. Completely nude, he stepped close enough to the railing to peer over the side to the street below. 

Illya made a distressed noise in the back of his throat and pulled Napoleon back with one enormous hand on his shoulder, overbalancing him and sending him stumbling into Illya’s chest. Instinctively, Illya wrapped an arm around Napoleon’s waist to stabilize him. The brush of his leather jacket against Napoleon’s skin sent sparks of lust down Napoleon’s spine and he twisted in Illya’s loose embrace to look up at him.

Illya was staring down at Napoleon like he’d never seen anything like him before. “You are nude on a balcony where anyone could see you. You took off your clothes for me. You are letting me touch you. I…Why are you doing this?”

Napoleon debated how to answer this for a split second. “Well, you seemed to enjoy looking at me nude on this very balcony a few days ago. I thought I’d give you a closer look.” Illya flinched back at the flippant tone and the bite of Napoleon’s words. Napoleon regretted it immediately. “No, I’m sorry. That was cruel. Illya…I would very much like to take you to bed. I think you’d enjoy that too, if the bugle pressing against my stomach is anything to go by. I like being looked at. I like standing here, in the open, watching you look at me, and knowing that no one locked the door to the suite. Gaby or Waverly might return at any moment. Someone below might look up…I’m something of an exhibitionist. But mostly, I stripped because I’d like you to strip too. There’s a bed not twenty feet that way. Shall we make use of it?”

Illya relaxed and looked down at Napoleon in quiet amazement. He brought a hand up to cradle the back of Napoleon’s skull, fingers curled in his hair. The other hand, he slipped between them to cup Napoleon’s half-hard cock. It snugged perfectly in the curve of Illya’s enormous palm. The heat of his skin sent prickles of desire up Napoleon’s spine and his eyes fluttered shut briefly.

Illya exhaled unsteadily and smiled. “Nyet, Cowboy. You like being looked at. Perhaps you will like being looked at when I fuck you?”

All of Napoleon’s breath left him in a thin gasp and his eyes snapped open. “God yes.” 

He reached around Illya, patting around until he found his trouser pocket, and came back with a small bottle of lube. Illya snorted and took the bottle from his. Using his grip on Napoleon’s hair, he forced him back a step and turned him around. Napoleon braced himself on the railing and spread his legs, cock hardening further both in anticipation and at the thought of the people below and in the building across from them. He wondered what the concierge would say if someone called the police on them. He’d fucked her a few days before and now he was going to get fucked on his own balcony. Would she be disgusted? Would he still be naked and bent over the railing when she came up? Would the police drag him away, nude and dripping Illya’s come from his gaping hole? He shuddered and dropped his head to hang between his arms. 

He could feel Illya move closer behind him and he could hear the shush of Illya’s fly being opened. He tilted his hips up, trying to prompt Illya to move faster and yet, the shock of lubed fingers against his hole still had him gasping. Illya pet the ring of muscle gently, so gently that it had Napoleon squirming and pushing back toward Illya’s fingers. Which were long and thick and he wanted them inside himself immediately.

Illya obliged, working him open slowly, with a mixture of teasing pets and deep scissoring thrusts that he kept up for long frustrating minutes. Napoleon pushed himself back further onto Illya’s hand, hoping to get the point across. He was more than ready. He was gaping and panting for Illya’s cock. He whined low in his throat when Illya pulled away entirely, but didn’t move after him. He was rewarded a second or two later, by large hands wrapping around his hips and Illya sliding in in one long, slow motion. Pain flared in his lower spine and pleasure sparked his nerve endings. He moaned, loud and obscene. Illya reached up, wrapped a hand over his face, and fucked into him again. 

The Russian set a languid pace, driving Napoleon further and further into desperation. It was all delicious, felt _so good_ , but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.

He had no idea how long they stayed like that, him with his back arched and his aching cock bobbing against the railing and Illya behind him with one hand over his face and the other acting as an anchor so he could fuck Napoleon slow and sweet.

Eventually, when the keening whines were loud enough that the muffle of Illya’s hand did little to silence them, Illya took pity on him and sped up, setting a brutal pace. Within a moment, Napoleon was coming in thick strands over the railing and onto the tile floor of the balcony. 

Illya didn’t slow his pace or move his hand from Napoleon’s mouth. Which, Napoleon thought vaguely, was a good thing because the noises he’d be making otherwise would probably prove embarrassing later. The repeated thrusts against his oversensitive prostate had Napoleon scrabbling against the rail, unable to get his hands to cooperate as overstimulation gave the pleasure and edge of pain and made him clumsy. Illya laughed, breathless and giddy sounding, and Napoleon surrendered. He thought maybe, given enough time and another few laughs like that one and he’d be willing to do just about anything for the man at his back.

Napoleon wasn’t sure if that was a comforting thoughts, but he couldn’t contemplate it further because Illya was pulling out and painting Napoleon’s ass and back with come. 

———————

It took months of back-alley fucking and furtive handjobs in supply closets for Napoleon to admit, even to himself, that Illya was using him. That that was all this was. This thing between them that made Napoleon’s heart stutter whenever the giant Russian was in the room and his breath hitch whenever he heard the low rumble of Illya’s voice. 

Illya’s gaze still found Gaby, unerringly, whenever she was near. He still gravitated toward her, like she was the center of his universe. He still scoffed at Napoleon, insulted him, and ignored him whenever there were other people near.

At the beginning, Napoleon thought that that was the Russian equivalent of discretion. It didn’t take long for him to realize his mistake. He thought that the sex, always somewhere hidden away and never in a bed, always pandering to the kink he’d expressed that first time, was Illya attempting to give him what he thought Napoleon needed to get off. Recently, he realized that he was wrong in that too. 

It was another beautiful sunny day, so reminiscent of that afternoon in Rome, when Napoleon looked up at himself in the mirror and realized that he barely recognized his own reflection. Oh, he still looked the same, still the same smooth exterior, but his eyes were hollowed out and empty. 

He had thought that he could take anything that Illya gave him. Any scrap of attention, because he was pathetic and unwillingly in love. But the ache in his chest, that feeling that he’d been scrapped bare by the jagged edge of a broken blade, threatened to overwhelm him and he couldn’t deal with it anymore. He felt like a live wire, exposed and dangerous and about to short out at any moment.

He packed his bag. Gaby was off, solo, until tomorrow and he doubted very much that Illya would even notice he was gone. Illya, who never sought out his company unless he wanted to fuck. His jaw worked for a moment as he tried to swallow back the despair that was thickening his throat…

He was sitting on the floor, staring at his packed bags, an hour later when Illya opened the door. Napoleon almost laughed. His lungs felt like they were full of broken glass, but he couldn’t leave, couldn’t bear the thought that he’d never seen Illya again. And now, here was Illya, likely looking for sex. 

“Cowboy? Why are bags packed? Are you going somewhere?”

Napoleon laughed, bitter and venomous. “No, Illya. I’m not going anywhere.”

Illya frowned and came to sit neck to Napoleon. He glanced over at the American. “What is wrong, Cowboy? If you are not leaving, why did you pack bags?”

Napoleon laughed again. “Because I need to leave. Because I tried to leave. And I can’t.”

Illya frowned and reached out a hand, but Napoleon flinched back. He couldn’t control it, couldn’t pretend anymore. “Don’t. Just…don’t touch me.”

Illya’s face went from annoyed confusion to fear in a moment. “What is wrong? Has someone done something to you, Cowboy?”

Napoleon snorted and shook his head. “Someone? Hmm…Yes, Peril. _Someone_ has done something to me. You. You have.”

Illya was suddenly thrumming with tension. “What? What did I do?”

Napoleon frowned and turned to look at the Russian. “You really don’t know? You are really so unobservant? So cruel? My god, Illya, I had thought you were a better man than that. A better spy.”

Illya scowled and leaned forward. “Tell me what I have done to you, Cowboy.”

“Do you even remember my actual name?”

Illya blinked, momentarily thrown by the question. “Napoleon Solo.”

“Well, there is that, at least.”

“Napoleon,” Illya stressed the name. “Tell me what is happened.”

Napoleon shook his head again, turning away to look out the window. “It’s ironic really. I’m supposed to be the suave, emotionless playboy and you’re supposed to be the one with control issues. And somehow we’ve swapped places.”

Illya’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“You use me. I thought I could deal with that. I thought that that would be alright. It’s not and I can’t do this anymore. This…thing with you. I can’t…”

“Use? Napoleon—“

“No, you don’t get to use that confused tone with me. Not on this. You have to know what you’re doing. You can’t be that _stupid_. I’m a warm body for you to fuck. Otherwise, you barely even look at me.”

Illya sucked in a sharp breath and Napoleon turned back to him, scowling. Illya shook his head. “Cowboy, you are an idiot.”

“How dare you—“ The words were angrier than Illya had ever heard from Napoleon. But he cut them off.

“Here.” He reached into the secret pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small envelope. He shoved it into Napoleon’s hands.

Napoleon, bitter rage and pain still twisting his beautiful face, looked down. He opened the envelope and a small stack of well-worn color photographs fell into his lap. 

They were all of Napoleon. But unlike the original stash the American had found, none of these were nudes. They captured stolen moments, instead. Napoleon grinning at something Gaby had said. Napoleon leaning in, manufactured adoration in his eyes as he seduced a mark. Napoleon sleeping peacefully, curled against the window of a plane. Napoleon, Napoleon, Napoleon. 

The man himself gaped at the stack of photographs. 

Illya clenched his teeth. “I give you what you want. What you crave and cannot get from the women you still take to bed. I am nothing to you and you are everything to me. Do no dare tell me that I _use you_.”

Napoleon was gasping, panting huffs of breath as he stared at the photographs in his lap. When he finally managed to look up, his eyes were swimming and something in his face was fragile, ready to shatter in a heartbeat. “Do you know why I still take nameless, faceless women to bed?”

Illya’s face closed off and his nostrils flared. Napoleon continued anyway. “Because they are warm. Because after, they fall asleep on my chest. Can stand to be in my company for longer than the duration of the act. Because I thought that perhaps I could fill up the hollow cavity in my chest that _you_ carved out, but it never works. Because, Illya Kuryakin, I love you. But it’s more than love. I need you. I can’t seem to figure out how to exist without you anymore. And if that means I take whatever you give me and another little part of me fades away every time you leave me, filthy in an alley and aching for you, then that’s what I do. The women were a stupid, futile attempt to salve the wound.”

Illya surged up to his knees and pulled Napoleon up with him, cradling his face between both hands. “Your name is written on my soul, Napoleon Solo. If given half a chance, I would spent every minute of the rest of my life proving this to you.” He whispered in Russian, voice tight and low.

Napoleon blinked at him. “What about Gaby?”

Illya frowned. “What about her?”

Napoleon snorted, trying to break Illya’s hold on his head. “I see how you look at her. How sharp your focus on her is, whenever she’s near. How your eyes gravitate to her.”

Illya huffed a laugh and, for the briefest of moments, Napoleon wanted to wrap his hands around Illya’s neck and squeeze. It passed between one breath and the next, leaving shame in its wake. “That is because I am certain that at any moment she will decide to hit me again. Or use my body to destroy another hotel room. It was very unpleasant the first time and I do not relish a reoccurrence.”

It was Napoleon’s turn to frown in confusion. “First time?”

“In Rome. That first night. I am sure you thought we were fucking. You were actually fucking one floor above us. We were not. Chop Shop Girl tried to make me dance, grabbed my wrists and hit me with my own hands. When I attempted to get her to stop behaving so poorly, she attacked me. I know that she will do it again. I do not know when it will happen. I am careful.”

Napoleon blinked rapidly for a moment and let out a surprised laugh. “We’re both idiots.” He pointed out and kissed Illya for the first time.


	8. The Gulag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon stages a rescue. 
> 
> Response to this prompt: Napoleon singlehandedly saves Illya from the gulag, going undercover(maybe against express orders), using cunning and endurance, retrieves him form the camp, brings him back in the West.

It’s only once Napoleon reaches the edge of the tree line surrounding the camp that Illya’s been taken to that he realizes exactly what he’s gotten himself in for. The wall that enclosed the camp was probably close to twelve feet high. There were a hundred yards of open space between the trees and the fence. Each support post had been replaced by a watchtower. There appeared to be a guard with a rifle in each one. 

Napoleon swallowed, the acrid taste of memory coating his tongue. For a moment, he was standing again outside Auschwitz, looking across the fields of corpses at the high fences and the watchtowers. The lingering stench of human waste and wanton destruction, hanging in the air. He blinks and the afterimage disappears. But the smell doesn’t.

It’s the funk of a thousand of unwashed bodies, of badly maintained latrines, of desperation and hatred. These are things that Napoleon understands. These are things that he wishes Illya had never had to experience. 

Napoleon hitches his pack higher on his shoulder and vanishes back into the trees. No one has seen him. No one will.

He climbs a tree.

Binoculars show him the yard inside the fence. It’s early enough that the prisoners have not yet been taken to work in the quarry. Napoleon narrows his eyes and tests the layout visible to him with the one inside his head. It had taken enough time and effort to get the former guard to betray his country, Napoleon thought with irritation, it had better be correct.

From a cursory glance, it appears to be. Napoleon exhales and settles in to wait. This is going to take time. He’s got all the time in the world.

——————

Three days and three nights. That’s how long it takes the camp to cycle out all the guards. In that time, Napoleon had lost feeling in one of his toes, but he has also finally made a decision.

At the changing of the second night guard on the fourth night, Napoleon slips across the expanse of white snow to press himself against the fence. No one notices. He breaths shallowly and makes only those movements that are absolutely necessary.

The climb up the fence and watchtower is simple. It had been made of wood, many years before, and had become somewhat porous. The tower he's chosen has only one guard inside, a problem he solves quickly with a tranquilizer to the neck. Once the man is out, he strips him. Napoleon carried in a length of rope to tie the guard up with and he stuffs the man’s own handkerchief into his mouth as a gag, in case he wakes up too soon. Napoleon covers the unconscious guard with a thick wool blanket he’d had in his pack to prevent the man from freezing to death and quickly dresses in the man’s clothing.

Easily lifting the guard’s rifle, Napoleon settles himself into the proper stance of military personnel, posture he’d long since abandoned but never forgotten. He knows that getting in is going to be simple. He merely has to pretend like he belongs and he will likely not be questioned. Especially with the thick beard obscuring his distinctly un-Russian features. He runs a hand over the beard briefly. He thinks that he will miss it when he shaves it off.

It is getting Illya out that will be difficult. He huffs a breath and descends the stairs. It doesn’t matter. He is leaving this camp with Illya alive and in tow, or he isn’t leaving it at all.

The block of beds reserved for men like Illya, former KGB traitors, is at the far end of the yard, beyond all the other cell blocks. Napoleon walks steadily and with purpose. No one even looks at him.

He enters the building and nearly freezes. It is a large single room, like a dormitory, with fifty or so beds, stacked in sets of two. Napoleon blinks once, and settles further into his role. In accent-perfect Russian, he barks, “Kuryakin. Now.”

There is a slight commotion as several prisoners are jolted awake, but no one moves. At the far end of the room, a single figure seems to be struggling to stand. “Faster!” He lets his voice lower to a snarl. 

The figure lurks to its feet and stumbles toward him. No one speaks. No one asks questions. Napoleon is not certain that anyone even breaths.

Illya stops a handful of feet in front of him, eyes firmly on the floor. He looks appalling, but Napoleon pushes any and all observations on Illya’s state away. Later. He will think about this later. Now…

He gestures for Illya to proceed him out of the building. Illya shuffles forward. It has gotten dark enough out that Napoleon in his dark guard’s uniform and Illya who is coated in grim and dark skinned with grit from the quarry are nearly invisible. Napoleon manages to get Illya all the way to the guard tower without anyone noticing or Illya reacting.

But at the base of the tower, Illya freeze, staring up at the wooden structure. He turns horrified eyes, so wide their whites seem to glow, on Napoleon for a split second. Napoleon does not consider the implications of this. Instead he hisses, very quickly and in English, “Peril, would you fucking move it? You’re going to get us killed!”

Illya flinches back as though he’s been slapped and gasps, but he turns and climbs the stairs to the guard tower.

The guard is still unconscious. Napoleon strips, redresses the guard, and climbs back into his now chilled clothing. He sticks the guard with another tranquilizer and removes the gag. He leaves the man slumped in his chair and pulls an nearly empty bottle of vodka out of his pack. He splashes some into the man’s mouth and down his front, before leaving the bottle on the table. He turns to find Illya staring at him like he’s a ghost.

“Cowboy…” Illya’s voice is hoarse from disuse (and only disuse, Napoleon prays fervently, even thought he isn’t sure he believes in God).

He grins and nods. “Come on, Peril. You’ve been stuck here long enough. I’m sorry if took me so long, but Waverly was being…uncooperative. So was Sanders.”

He pulls the final items out of his bag: thick, dark clothing for Illya and a pair of spiked boots for him as well.

Illya just stands there, staring, until Napoleon snorts in annoyance. The soft noise makes Illya flinch and he stumbles quickly forward to get dressed. 

It’s only once he’s pulled covered again that Napoleon realizes that Illya had been shivering steadily and he glances down at the prison uniform that Illya had been wearing. 

With a shutter, he has to push away memories from the war again. Napoleon has never hated a government so much as he hated the Third Reich, but he was rapidly reconsidering, because the USSR is coming in a close second.

He shakes off the thoughts and leads Illya down the wall of the watchtower to the ground below. He checks his watch, glances around appraisingly, and pushes Illya very gently toward the tree line with a whispered, “Run!”

Illya begins shaking again, Napoleon is not sure why, but he complies, running awkwardly forward. Never looking back. Napoleon is close on his heels, focusing over his shoulder at the watchtowers. When they reach the shelter of the trees, Napoleon finally relaxes with a deep sigh.

He turns to Illya to find the huge Russian staring at him in awe. He blinks. “Um…”

“You come for me.” Illya’s English has suffered for the years he’s spent in the Gulag. Napoleon swallows.

“Of course, I did, Peril. You’re my partner.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and means something that he is sure Illya will never understand from it.

“I…I did not think you come. I thought…you are probably dead. Sanders took you back, yes?”

Napoleon laughs, soft and bitter. “Sanders tried to take me back. He was honestly threatening to put me in prison for the last two years of my sentence. Waverly stopped it for long enough. You know? I’ve never liked wet work, but killing Sanders was a job that I thoroughly enjoyed. As was the task of killing Oleg, but that one wasn’t strictly sanctioned, so I’m not sure it counts as work, per se.”

Illya seems to loose his breath at that. “Oleg is dead?”

Napoleon smiles and he knows it’s a cruel, twisted stretch of his mouth by the sudden flash of fear that should never be in Illya’s eyes. He exhales carefully. “Illya, my god. What have they done to you?” He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, as Illya looks away. Shame colors the line of his shoulders. “Alright, I need to get the rest of my equipment and we need to get out of here. We should have until morning before they notice that you are missing.”

Illya nods, still refusing to meet Napoleon’s gaze, and follows him deeper into the forest. 

—————

The helicopter is exactly where he’d left it. Illya gapes at it for a long moment before climbing in. The flight out is easy. They stay low enough to avoid radar detection, but high enough not to be heard. It’s a precarious balance, but Napoleon has always been good at those and he’s a skilled pilot when he needs to be.

The small yacht that is waiting for them is a welcomed sight, in Napoleon’s opinion. He hands Illya his parachute, trusting him to be able to land on the boat, and jams the helicopter’s controls. It will keep flying straight until it runs out of fuel, which should be in about twenty minutes, and then it will crash. Neatly destroying any evidence.

They both land easily, and the parachutes end up in the water too. Illya is silent as Napoleon unmoors and starts the engines. They do not speak at all until the boat is in international waters, well away from the Soviet coast and on its way to Japan. In wide open waters, within sight of the Japanese coast, Napoleon cuts the engines and drops anchor.

Illya is shivering again. Napoleon thinks about detonating a bomb in the Kremlin. He pulls the large man below decks, where it is warm and snug. He pushes Illya into a seat on the couch and pulls up a chair right across from him. 

“Illya…What do you need? Tell me how to help you? What medical attention do you need?” Napoleon keeps his voice low and steady.

Illya chokes out a breath. “Immediately? I do not think any. Soon? I am…um…I do not get enough food or clean water. They do not…” He looks away and mumbles, “let us wash enough or well.”

Napoleon took a breath and nodded. “Well, I can start fixing all three of those problems right now.” 

He stands and goes into the small galley. He pulls out a bottle of mineral water and tucks it under his arm. He rummages around in the small icebox and in the cabinets. He comes back into the living area with a small loaf of fresh bread, a cold roasted chicken leg, and a small wedge of hard cheese.

“I know it’s not much, but I’m not sure how much more your stomach could take. We want you fed, not vomiting.”

He passes the food to Illya, who snatches at it like it’s a tease. Napoleon makes no comment. He gets up and goes into the bedroom to change his clothes, leaving Illya to eat in peace. Hopefully, with him out of sight, Illya will be able to eat without worry.

Dressed in warm sleep pants and a thermal shirt, Napoleon returns to find Illya pressed against the wall. The Russian’s eyes are roving wildly around the room, but he calms the moment that Napoleon enters his line of sight.

Napoleon stills, wondering about the dangers and implications of dependence and realizing he could not care any less. “I’ve got fresh clothing for you, to sleep in.” He holds up a small bundle. “But I think you might enjoy a warm shower first.”

Illya swallows. “I…Cowboy, you…please do not leave again.”

Napoleon nods. “I thought you might be more comfortable, eating alone.” His voice is apologetic, but he’s not going to make Illya even more aware of his own skittish state by offering an actual apology. “Nyet.”

He shrugs. “Alright. Here, I’ll show you the bathroom.”

For a smallish boat, the bathroom is quite large. Napoleon had specified this, when he’s purchased it. The shower is twice the normal standard size. He had thought it would make Illya more comfortable, to have the extra space. Now he wonders if he’s going to be sharing it with the Russian or if that will trigger Illya even worse. He does not think about the implications of that either.

Inside the bathroom, Illya strips, but refuses to let Napoleon dump his clothing in the hamper. Napoleon chews his tongue for a moment, before holding up the bundle in his arms. “Illya, there isn’t anywhere for the clothing to go. We’re on a boat. A small boat at that. We are the only ones on it. We have enough fuel and enough food to stay here for at least a week. The clothing will still be in the hamper in the morning. In the meantime, you had nice warm pajama pants to wear. I swear.”

Illya’s jaw works for a moment. “I…I am sorry. I—“

“Jesus. No, don’t apologize. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Believe me, I know.”

Illya finally steps into the shower stall. Napoleon settles against the sink. “Do you need anything?”

Illya shakes his head, pauses, and then nods. “Could you…keep talking? You do not have to be close…just…here.”

Napoleon laughs. “Now that is not something I hear often. Mostly people tell me to shut up.” He grins at Illya’s back and very carefully does not look down. He sobers quickly at the new set of scars on Illya’s back: lash marks. As he speaks, Illya very slowly washes his hair three times. Finally when the water runs clean, he moves on to his body. “Listen, Illya. You have nothing to apologize for, nothing to be ashamed of. None of this was your fault. If anyone knows that, it’s me. I was in the army, remember. I was with one of the platoons that liberated Auschwitz. I saw what goes on in camps like that. And the gulag? The prison camp you were? It doesn’t seem all that much better. They only just refrain from working you to death. Mostly. And there aren’t any ovens, but I don’t know that that makes it all that much better. It isn’t just that though. I…I never talk about it, but I also served in Korea. I was there for almost six months. For a quarter of that time, I was a POW. I know what they can do to you. Why do you think I could walk off Uncle Rudi’s tender care so quickly? I am intimately familiar with all sorts of torture. And I can say, unequivocally and with no doubt at all, that none of this is your fault. I know what Oleg tried to make you believe and I know what the camps can do, but Illya Kuryakin, you are a good man. You will always be a good man and you’ve always been a good man. Nothing anyone in that camps did to you can change that.”

Illya’s shoulders hunched forward once, and he let out a wounded noise. Before Napoleon can reach out for him, Illya’s shut the water off and is out of the shower. He stumbles the single step to Napoleon’s side and collapses into him, wrapping his long arms around Napoleon’s back and curling those enormous hands around his sides.

Napoleon breaths and brings his arms up around Illya’s thick, damp shoulders. The Russian had been muscular before and clearly strong as hell, but he’d never been bulky. Napoleon was the bulky one. Not anymore. Illya’s shoulders are corded heavily with new muscle, likely from his labor in the quarries. 

Napoleon smooths along that skin, trying to rub away the trembling that seems to be building in Illya’s whole body. He seems about to shake apart. “Hey. Hey, you’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re going to be just fine. Okay? моя любовь, I’m here. Always. I will always come for you.”

The words are murmured softly into the wet skin of Illya’s neck. They seem to sooth some of the shaking. Illya pulls back and stares at Napoleon. “моя любовь?” He says with a slight lilt of sarcasm to his tone that makes the blood beating through Napoleon’s heart sing.

He can’t help the blush that creeps into his face. “I…Er?”

Illya smiles. Napoleon can’t breath. “Я люблю тебя, Napoleon.”

Napoleon blinks and stares. His lips part on a breath that comes out sounding more like an awed gasp. Illya is still smiling. “I dream of you, for eleven months in camp. At first, I think perhaps I call your name in my sleep. Other prisoners, they jeer, call me names, but no one does more. I am too big to be target. Too strong. Guards though. One of them…like me. He thought big man is good challenge.” Napoleon stills and wonders how possible it would be to go back and kill every single guard. “He ends up…ended up in infirmary for two weeks. I am not challenge anymore after that. But they all think I am…deviant because I call your name when I sleep. They ask where is my precious Napoleon now. Where is my Cowboy? I tell them that you are in America and that I wish for you to stay there and far away from here.”

Napoleon grits his teeth and grins, feral. “I wish I’d left some kind of calling card at the camp. So the others would know that your Cowboy came for you and took you away from there.”

Illya tilts his head. “Are you? My Cowboy?”

Napoleon laughs again, bittersweet and harsh. “God, Illya. You really are a terrible spy if you don’t know that I was your Cowboy from the moment I turned around in the back of that car in East Berlin and met your eyes through the window.” His mouth curls in a fond smile. “Gaby told me to shoot you. I made some sort of asinine comment. I don’t even remember, but there was no way in hell I was going to take a shot at you from that close a range. I’d have killed you and that was not something I was going to do, mission be damned. Even if it killed me, instead.” He sobers. “Illya, I love you. Of course, I love you. I infiltrated a Soviet Gulag for you, for Christ’s sake.”

Illya frowns at him and shivers. Napoleon reaches behind himself and pulls out the bundle of pajamas just like his own, only thicker. “You…Waverly did not…send you?”

Napoleon makes a skeptical noise in the back of his throat. “Waverly. Waverly turned out to be relatively useless where you were concerned. And thus relatively useless to me. I haven’t spoken to the man in almost six months. Gaby, I spoke too five days ago, but Waverly? No, Waverly actually expressively forbid me from doing this. I told him to get fucked.”

Illya blinks at the curse. Napoleon rarely ever curses and usually only to drive home a point. This time it sounds like he can’t help himself. It’s quiet and vindictive. With a small smile, Illya pulls on his clothing, visibly luxuriating in the warmth and softness of the fabric. Napoleon smiles at him and takes him by the hand.

They end up in the bedroom. “Lay down. We’ll sleep and then figure out what were going to do now, in the morning. I’ll also need to contact Gaby. But now, we sleep.”

Illya inhales sharply. “Together? Do you…”

Napoleon narrows his eyes. “I want to sleep. I want you to sleep. I want to help keep you warm, because you’ve hardly stopped shivering since we got into the guard shack. I want to hold you so that you know that you are safe here, away from the camp and the others and the guards. It’s just you and me and the sea. If you were going to ask me anything more than that, I think I might get insulted.”

Illya frowns, clearly confused. “You do not want to…” He makes a rude hand gesture. “Why not? Do you not want—“

“Illya. Stop.” Illya’s mouth snaps shut and he glares weakly. Napoleon will take anything he can get. “You’re gorgeous. Of course I want to…have sex with you. If that was what you were asking. But not right now. Not when we’re both exhausted and not when sex is the last thing you need. If _you_ want to fuck me right now, that’s what we’ll do, but if you’re asking me because you think I expect it or any other reason at all, then the answer is no. Not now. Not yet. Sometime later, when…the timing is better and we’re both at our best. Not now. Alright?”

Illya swallows and glances out the cabin window for a long moment. “No one…touched me like that. If that is why you are being so…careful. I am not…victim.”

Napoleon shakes his head, steps forward, cups Illya’s face in his hands. “I never thought you were. This has nothing to do with that. Even if they had, I would still want you. We would still do whatever you were comfortable with. I would still want to taste every inch of your skin. I would still want to run my hands all over you. I would still want to suck your cock until my jaw aches and my chin is covered in drool. I would still want to open myself up for you. I would still want to take you apart with my fingers and my tongue and my cock. All of that is true and it still would be true, no matter what anyone did to you or what you did when you were there. I swear to you. Wanting is not the problem. Come on. Sleep with me.”

Illya finally gives in. He collapses onto the bed with is, by special order, long enough for him to stretch out all his limbs and not have any part of himself stick out or hang over the edge. He stretches like a cat, enjoying the feel of a mattress again, after a year of sleeping on wooden bunk, and the weight of Napoleon’s gaze on him. Illya thinks maybe the mattress will seem too soft tomorrow night. Will be suffocating and overwhelming. But right now, it is the most comfortable surface he’s ever laid on.

Napoleon smiles down at him and Illya tugs on his hand, overbalancing the American. Napoleon crashes down onto the bed, laughing, and curls himself over Illya. He pulls the covers up over them and they both settle into the warmth of it and each other. 

Napoleon knows that the world will intrude tomorrow and that he will have to figure out what to do next, before he never thought quite that far ahead, had envisioned everything going wrong, but had been content in the knowledge that he’d die with Illya at his side.

Now that he and Illya have a second chance at life, he has no idea what to do with it. Napoleon glances up at Illya, but the Russian is already sleeping. Silent and still, but warm and safe under Napoleon’s hands.

Napoleon drifts off to sleep, studying the pattern of stubble on Illya’s jaw and thinking that perhaps Illya is the most precious thing he’s ever stolen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know that Nimue_8 requested a double melodrama, but the second half of the prompt just didn't fit with this at all. Also, it's over 4k anyway, so I thought I'd write two separate fills. I will fill the other half soon (maybe tomorrow!), but in the meantime, I'm sorry for the change and I hoped you liked this!


	9. Prostitute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Several months later, Illya discovers that Napoleon very reluctantly provides sexual favors to a mark in the context of a mission, also has prostitution in his past. Feels dirty about it, always wanted to hide that from the perfect KGB agent he's fallen in love with, dreading his reaction. But Illya only wants to help and care for him.
> 
> I tweaked it a bit. But only a bit. It's been a year or so, instead of months. and the providing favors is merely referenced as a past occurrence. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

“Well, well, well. Pretty Boy! I never thought I’d see you again after that stunt you pulled.”

The voice, which Napoleon had dearly hoped he’d escaped when he joined the army, sent a wash of ice through his veins. He froze, back rigid and posture as closed off as possible. Illya eyed him in confusion.

“Come on, Pretty Boy. Don’t you remember Uncle Frankie?”

Napoleon exhaled a shaky breath and turned, a feral, vicious smile stretching his mouth. “Hello, Frankie. I thought I’d gotten rid of you long ago. I see you’re still oozing your way through New York.”

The man was maybe in his late forties, an inch or two shorter than Napoleon. He had washed out red hair that fell in a wave over his brow. His smile was wide and toothy, not something Illya was inclined to trust. Not that Illya trusted much of anything, except Napoleon, but still. The man had his hands in his pockets. He ran a long look over Napoleon and looked like he wanted to unhinge his jaw and swallow him whole. Illya tensed and waited, following Napoleon’s lead.

“Aw, Pretty Boy. Is that any way to treat your Uncle? After everything I did for you? By the look of that suit, you haven’t done half bad for yourself. The army musta treated you right. Unless maybe you gone and found yourself a suga daddy.” He shot a look at Illya, who narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like the implications of that statement.

Napoleon’s mouth curled up. Illya flicked a glance at him and suppressed the urge to step back. He had rarely ever seen so much naked malice in the American’s face. He gritted his teeth and tried to ready himself for whatever bloodbath was going to ensue. He still didn’t understand exactly who this man was.

“Actually, I’m with the CIA now.” 

Illya blinked. Frank blinked. The fingers of Napoleon’s left flexed. Illya had never seen that tic before. Frankie burst out laughing. “Yeah? Pull the other one. You ain’t never CIA. You never had two braincells ta rub together, never mind enough ta get you into the CIA.”

Illya scowled and took half a step forward. “He is not lying. Why should you think he is lying?” His accent was rough and heavy. It seemed to surprise the other man.

“A Commie? Really, Pretty Boy?” Frankie scoffed and turned to Illya. “Because the CIA ain’t never let a whore become an agent. Not that I ever heard.”

Illya’s shoulders twitched back and he could feel the lightest of trembles start in his hand. _How dare this_

“Because of course, being a whore was on my resume. I served in the army for eight years. Two wars. I think service to my country was enough to keep the CIA from asking too many questions about where I grew up. But you might want to…tread carefully in throwing around slurs like that, Frankie. My partner here doesn’t really appreciate that kind of language and he has a bit of an…anger management problem.”

Frank grinned, cocky as hell, and Illya thought that maybe that was where Napoleon learned that particular expression. It lost all of its appeal, being on someone else’s face, and Illya’s tremble was rapidly approaching a shake. 

“You think I’m afraid of some Commie bastard?”

Napoleon laughed. “Frankie, I’ve seen Illya crush a man’s skull one handed.”

Illya turned his scowl on Napoleon, trying to gauge his mood. “That was one time, Cowboy. You know this. I do not understand why you bring it up again and again. And anyway, had small head.”

Napoleon flashed a grin at him, though it was tight and a little brittle. 

Frankie blinked. “What? You’re shitting me. That ain’t possible.”

Napoleon snorted. “Would you like to find out how possible it is, Frankie? Somehow, I don’t think so. I don’t work for you anymore. I haven’t worked for you in two decades. Now, fuck off.”

Frank narrowed his eyes and stepped in close. Napoleon’s body seemed to curl in on itself at the man’s proximity. Like he was responding with instinct rather than intension. “My boys don’t get to talk to me like that. And you, Pretty Boy, used to be my best boy. And that’s all you’ll ever be. You’re a dirty whore and no amounta washing will ever get you clean. You ain’t never gonna escape who you are, Pretty Boy. So don’t ever talk to me like that again.”

Napoleon swallowed thickly and jerked his head. Illya refused to accept this as a nod. He also refused to see how this would play out. He stepped forward, allowed the shaking in his hand to flow over him, and he wrapped that hand around Frankie’s neck. 

The man choked and scrabbled uselessly at Illya’s wrist. Illya lifted him easily off the ground. “It is you who does not get to speak to Napoleon Solo that way. You are scum on shoe. You are useless waste of breathing. If Solo wishes it, I will snap your neck like twig and throw you in river.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Cowboy? What do you want?”

Napoleon was staring at him, eyes wide and filled with something like reverence. He looked away for a moment and then turned back with his suavest smile. “What I want is to bury him deep enough so even Jesus won’t be able to find his body on judgment day. That’s not what we’re going to do though. I don’t think the powers that be would appreciate it, in the very unlikely even some evidence does turn out. We can, however, make him useless to the boys he breaks in.”

Napoleon’s voice was steady, calm, matter-of-fact. Illya had to fight to control his limbs. “Breaks…in…?”

Napoleon nodded. Illya turned back to the man in his hand. “You hurt my partner, scum. You should be grateful he is better man than me. But I will enjoy cutting off your cock.”

—————

Frank passed out when Napoleon cauterized the wound. They left him in a warehouse near his own territory, where his boys would find him, and went back to the hotel.

Illya waited until the door was shut behind them, saying a silent thank you that Gaby was in London for this. “Would you care to explain?”

Napoleon laughed, brittle. “No. But I suppose I ought.”

Illya flinched. “I will not force you to do anything you do not want. Includes telling me things.”

Napoleon pushed out a pained breath and shook his head. “I know you wouldn’t, Peril. But I…Look, I’m sorry I never told you. You deserved to know exactly what you were sleeping with and it was dishonest of me to pretend to be something that I’m not.”

Illya frowned at this. “What?”

Napoleon refused to meet his eyes. He went to pour himself a drink. “I was a whore. From…God, I think Uncle Frankie caught me when I was about eleven. So from eleven to sixteen, I worked for Frankie. He owns a whorehouse a couple blocks from that warehouse. It’s mostly girls, women. But there are three rooms on the top floor for his boys. He…he prowls, looking for lost kids or runaways, orphans like me. He gives them a place to stay, some food, for a few days and then they owe him. So he breaks them in. Teaches them how to please the Johns. And then you work for him. Until you’re too big for them to want or you get ugly or sick. Several of the boys died while I was there. A couple from disease. Robbie killed himself. One was killed by a John. I faked my records and joined the army. It was the first time in…years that I could sleep the whole night through. Alone. That I didn’t have to touch anyone.”

Illya was perfectly still. Rage was a strange thing for Illya. Normally it burned hot and fast and destructive. His vision would go red and he’s destroy anything he could get his hands on, but then, when the red receded, he’d be fine. Sometimes, once or twice in his life, it was different. His rage coiled in on itself, deep in his belly. It was a cold, heavy thing. If he could ever get away from Napoleon long enough without being noticed, he would find this Uncle Frankie again and he could slice him open and pulled out everything inside the man’s chest. He’d started with his guts. Maybe he’d roast them while Uncle Frankie watched. He’d pluck out the man’s eyes balls and he’d shover something hard and jagged up inside him, whatever was near to hand.

“One of the reasons I chose the CIA over prison was the…likelihood that I wouldn’t be able to stop the other men from touching me. I know what I look like and I know how I’ve been conditioned, how I would have reacted to that kind of…attempt. Now? I’d probably shoot anyone who tried in the face. Then?” His head jerked a little and his mouth pulled into a self-deprecating smile. “So I chose the CIA and managed to avoid most unwanted physical attention. Although they seem to think I’m a whore anyway. Half of my missions for them consisted of sleeping with particular women to gain access to thing. So I suppose Uncle Frankie was right. I’ll always just be a whore. But the CIA hates faggots, so they never picked male honeypot targets for me. Waverly, on the other hand, is not so squeamish. I keep waiting for the inevitable day when he needs a male target seduced. There is a reason I so rarely sleep with men.”

Illya flinched and blinked himself back to the present. His lips parted and a wounded sound slipped out. “But we…I didn’t…I…Бог.”

Napoleon finally looked up at him, eyes wide with horror. “No! Fuck. Illya, no. I don’t mean you. Never you. Not ever. I promise. I…” His shoulder curled in and he looked away again. “God, I love you so much. It’s never like that with you. I swear.”

Illya lurched forward to pulled Napoleon into his arms. “I love you too, Cowboy. No matter what you do, who you have to fuck. I will never learn anything about you that will change that. I promise you that.”

Napoleon choked and buried his face in Illya’s shoulders, clinging tightly to the Russian’s back. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never told you. I didn’t…after what I said about your mother. I—“

“You were telling truth. My mother did what she had to do to stay alive. To keep me alive. She was prostitute for members of Kremlin. It was horrible for her, but she was strongest woman I ever knew. It never made me think less of her and it won’t make me think less of you either.”

“I’m sorry for what I said about her. I—“

“Is past. Now, is you and me. I will never let anyone touch you who you do not want to. I swear this to you. You believe me?”

Napoleon laughed. It was a wet sound and it made Illya think of how Napoleon had sounded that night on the boat, when Illya had been falling apart, half-caught in dream and memory. He hadn’t been able to convince himself that Napoleon was real, that he was free, that the warmth that touched his skin for the first time in a year was not the product of a fever dream. “I believe you.”

“Do you remember the boat?”

Napoleon twitched in his arms and pulled back to look at him. They don’t talk about the time they spent on the boat. Three months of recovery and readjustment, of learning each other and themselves together. It was a time apart, both horrific and beautiful beyond imagining. They did not discuss it. “Yes. I remember the boat.”

“That first night, you told me ‘I want to help keep you warm. I want to hold you so that you know that you are safe here.’ and that ‘It’s just you and me and the sea.’ You told me these things. Now, I tell you them. I want to keep you warm and safe and always here with me. I will kill every John who ever laid a hand on you if that is what you want. I will do _whatever_ you want me to do. But for right now? For tonight? I wish to hold you close and chase away the memories.”

He caught Napoleon’s hand and pulled him into their bedroom to curl up together under the duvet. Napoleon swallowed and something in his eyes looked like it might shatter at the gentlest touch. Illya was not worried. If it did, he would pick up all the pieces and put them back together, even if it took all the rest of their lives.


	10. Bodyguard!Illya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vastiansteel's Tumblr Prompt: I'm thinking of Illya as Napoleon's bodyguard. XD
> 
> Napoleon's an actor. Illya is hired at his bodyguard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The relationship might seem a bit rushed. I think this has potential to be expanded into a proper fic, but I'm not really in a headspace for that. So! Prompt fill:
> 
> I hope you like it!

“Alexander, I don’t need a bodyguard. This is ridiculous.” Napoleon glared at his agent, more openly annoyed than Waverly had seen him in years.

“Solo, I can’t, in good conscience, let you go to the Vinciguerra affair without one. You’ve had seven different death threats _this week alone_ and Ms. Teller would have my hide if something happened to you before you finished this film.” Waverly eyed him sternly.

Napoleon arched an eyebrow and offer a smile that stated very plainly how displeased he was. “Gaby is obsessive and snarky. I am not particularly worried about what she wants. And the death threats are—“

“Something to consider seriously. Which you would see if you were not small, annoying child trapped inside grown man.” The voice was deep and thickly accented. Napoleon spun to find the _entire_ doorway blocked by a giant hulk of a man. He was easily three or four inches taller than Napoleon himself, though slimmer. Lean. Intimidating, with his short blond hair, cold blue eyes, and lines of anger around his mouth.

Napoleon was certain he’d never seen anyone he’d ever wanted to fuck more than this angry Russian. “And you are?”

“Your bodyguard.”

Napoleon grinned, wide and lascivious. He glanced at Waverly, who was cradling his head in his hands. “Alright. I accept the need for a bodyguard.” 

“Napoleon Solo, this is Illya Kuryakin. Former SVR. Which is—“

“The modern day KGB and Russia’s answer to the CIA and MI6. Yes, I know. I’m not actually stupid, you know.”

Illya’s brows lifted. “I was fooled.”

Napoleon narrowed his eyes at the man. “Yes, well. It seems it doesn’t take all that much to fool the Red Peril then. No wonder we won the Cold War.”

Illya’s jaw clenched and his left hand curled into a fist. “Listen here, you—“

“Gentlemen! Please. Keep this civil, would you? Mr. Kuryakin is in fact the best in the business. I was told he was very professional…” Waverly looked pointedly at Illya, who had the good grace to look chastened. 

Napoleon did not. He laughed. “Of course he’s the best in the business. He’s massive. Anyone wanting to start anything just has to look at him to be discourage. He’s easily six four and probably over 200 pounds. And he looks angry enough to wrestle a bear.”

“Am six foot five. Also, very good at Judo.” Illya seemed compelled to point out. He slipped his hands into his pockets, flexing his biceps and a delightful variety of chest muscles under this black turtle neck.

Napoleon rolls his eyes. Waverly shakes his head. “Yes. He’s the best. He will accompany you to all of the events at the Vinciguerra estate. You will both behave professionally.”

Napoleon laughed again, more genuine this time. “Alexander, when have you ever known me to behave _professionally_?”

Waverly smiled wryly. “There is a first time for everything, or so they say.”

Napoleon smirked. “I feel compelled to point out to both of you that, while the Red Peril here will be a delightful bit of scenery, I can take care of myself.”

“Doubtful.” Illya murmured under his breath.

Napoleon snorted. “I can also speak Russian.”

Illya looked surprised. Waverly looked unimpressed. “Yes, Solo. We know that you can take care of yourself. But having visible protection will certainly help. Also, the film hasn’t come out yet, so no one has really seen you lately. To most people, you’re likely still the whippet who played that art thief.”

Napoleon gritted his teeth. “I’ve put on over fifty pounds of muscle since then.”

“I know that. They don’t know that. So either you get yourself caught in a compromising position, find a pool party to attend, or wait until the film is released. Or at least a trailer.”

Napoleon sighed. Illya was watching them closely, curiosity in his eyes as his gaze ran over Napoleon’s form. 

Well, Napoleon figured, at least the weekend long party at Victoria’s wasn’t going to be nearly boring as he first thought.

————————

“You are recklace _Cowboy_!” Illya’s hands were fisted again and he was crowding Napoleon against the wall of the suite they were sharing. Victoria had apologized, smirking broadly, that there weren’t any free rooms. She had invited so many people and Napoleon had never said he’d be bringing a bodyguard. She’d implied a series of snide things, while he’d imagined stabbing her in the eye with his monte blanc. They’d spent the last two days in each other’s pockets. Napoleon, who normally hated prolonged and intimate non-sexual contact with other people, couldn’t remember having more fun.

Napoleon tried to shrug. “Jetskis are fun.”

Maybe flippancy was not the best option. “Fun? Fun, Cowboy? You are paying me to keep you safe. How am I supposed to do this if you are away from me on jetski. Do you realize how easily sniper could take you out on jetski?”

Napoleon gaped at him. “ _Sniper_?? Listen, Peril, I realize there’ve been some death threats and that I’ve got a few fans, but I’m hardly important enough to rank snipers! My god. This isn’t the KGB. I’m an actor, for god’s sakes.”

Illya snarled and pressed forward. He was so close, Napoleon could feel the heat of him seeping under his thin cotton shirt. One of Illya’s thighs was pressed in close between Napoleon’s knees and its proximity to his crotch was throwing of his concentration. He struggled not to react to the heat and pressure, but it was beginning to seem impossible.

“I do not care what you do for a living. I am your bodyguard. I guard this body.” He pressed closer, reaching one arm across Napoleon’s chest to force Napoleon up onto his toes. “But if you do not do as I say, there might not be a body left to guard. This is serious matter. Are you capable of being serious about anything at all?”

Napoleon blinked, trying to focus on Illya’s anger, his words, when all he wanted to do was grin down onto that thigh. He dropped his head back to thump against the wall and sucked in a ragged breath. Confusion flashed across Illya’s face for the briefest second, before he seemed to realize what was happening.

Between one blink and the next, Illya’s entire body went from thrumming with anger to tension of an entirely different sort. Napoleon tensed his own thigh, hot between Illya’s legs, and brushed against a growing erection. As though this confirmation was all he needed, Napoleon rocked forward, trying to bring their crotches together and reached up to pull Illya down for a kiss.

Illya pushed closer, using his greater height to press Napoleon’s hips back against the wall. Pinned and basically immobilized, Napoleon could do nothing but take whatever Illya gave him. His cock was fully hard and aching with it. 

Helplessness had never been a particular kink of his, but this wasn’t helplessness really. He considered briefly, before Illya’s mouth on his took away all coherent thought. He wasn’t helpless. He could break the hold at any point. He had weight and muscle mass on Illya. It was control. He had given Illya control of both his body and the situation. 

Illya seemed to want to crawl into him through his mouth. He lifted the arm that was pressing Napoleon into the wall and used both hands to unbutton Napoleon’s shirt. Napoleon tried to get his hands up and into Illya’s clothing, but one enormous hand snagged both wrists and pulled them up over his head, breaking the kiss. Illya panted into Napoleon’s mouth for a moment before dipping down to worry at his collarbone. He ran his free hand down Napoleon’s bare chest and curled his fingers around his clothed erection. Napoleon moaned, loud and desperate.

“Well, Cowboy. Will you listen? Will you listen when I try to protect you?”

He ground his hand against Napoleon’s cock, prompting Napoleon’s hips to buck into the pressure. “God, Yes. Anything. Just…Please, Illya.”

The sound of his name caused Illya’s breath to stutter. He pressed forward again, grinding his won erection into Napoleon’s thigh. They rocked against each other for several long moments. Napoleon whined and strained to recaptured Illya’s mouth, but with his hands pinned over his head, it was pointless. Illya huffed out something that might have been a laugh and kissed Napoleon again.

Illya cupped Napoleon’s cock, reaching underneath with long fingers to press against his perineum through the fabric of his pants. Napoleon whined, high and painful, and his hips jerked. Illya did it again.

With a gasp cry, Napoleon came in his pants. The pressure of his twitching thigh against Illya’s own erection and the needy sound of his name on Napoleon’s lips tipped Illya over the edge.

They panted against each other for a few moments before Napoleon started to laugh. Illya scowled and pulled back. “What?”

Napoleon glanced over Illya’s shoulder. “There is a bed not ten yards that way. But we decided to grin on each other against the wall until we came in our pants like teenagers?”

Illya blinked. “Was good, though?”

Napoleon’s laughter subsided into a smile. “Yes, it was good. So, Peril…What do you think of upgrading from bodyguard to boyfriend?”

Illya stepped away entirely, blinking wide eyes at Napoleon, and Napoleon felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. 

Illya smiled. It was the first genuine smile Napoleon had seen on his face, and he was transfixed. “You will perhaps not pay me for that one. But, as good agent, I strive for improvement. Upgrade is improvement.”

Napoleon laughed, relieved and giddy. “That has to be the most unromantic way to accept a date I’ve ever heard. Come here, you angry Russian bear.”

Illya raised his brows and stepped back into Napoleon’s reach. Napoleon pulled him down into another kiss. “I think it might take a while for me to get used to being the short one in our relationship.”

Illya grinned against Napoleon’s lips and murmured. “You are short. Little American Cowboy.”

Napoleon frowned and pulled back. “I’m six foot one, damn it. I am not short.”

Illya was still grinning, a light sparking in his eyes. “To me? You are short.”

Napoleon was about to retort indignantly, when Illya reached down a grasped both thighs in his enormous hands. He hoisted Napoleon up, forcing him to wrap his legs around Illya’s waist. Illya smirked up at him. “There. Now you are taller.”

Napoleon laughed breathlessly as Illya carried him to the bed and dumped him onto it. 

He could deal with being shorter, if the trade was Illya.


	11. Napoleon Wears Illya's Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was less a prompt and more a head canon post, but I got permission from the poster so I ran with it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: After Illya dies, Napoleon takes to wearing his watch.
> 
> (Botched mission in Sarajevo. He gives Waverly one report on it, sits through two debriefings and than never talks about it again.)
> 
> Napoleon nearly gets himself killed on several missions after the loss, nearly gets anyone unlucky enough to be partnered with him killed after the loss, before Gaby makes Waverly pull the plug on the agent’s field career. He’s too valuable to let go, but too reckless to depend on without direct supervision, so Waverly assigns him a position at the UNCLE’s academy for new recruits. 
> 
> He’s aloof, mean and dangerous in a way that makes every man and woman he introduces into the world of espionage more lethal and more capable than the generation of spies before them. He’s respected and feared in equal measure, like the headmaster of a strict school. People fall silent when he passes them in the hallway, are careful not to meet his gaze.
> 
> It’s unbecoming to him in a lot of ways, but he finds himself unable to care. All of his reasons for caring fell into the Miljacka years earlier.
> 
> In spite of his bristling demeanor, some of his students try to get to close to him but none of them manage. Rumors about him fly - no one knows the whole of the story when it comes to Napoleon Solo. They know he was a thief turned CIA agent, CIA agent handed over to UNCLE. One of UNCLE’s best until forced into the training academy for reasons undisclosed to the body of recruits. 
> 
> One young recruit is brazen in his attempts to gain Napoleon’s favor. Sidles up to him between classes, pretending to ask a question about a concept from the reading and attempts to show off his slight of hand.
> 
> He lifts Napoleon’s wallet first, the pen from his pocket second, and then gets a little too cocky on the third lift- He spends six days in the hospital and his nose never looks the same again. From then on, there is one thing all new recruits are taught by the ones before them: If you value your life, don’t touch Napoleon Solo’s watch.

Most days, Napoleon feels like he can’t breath. Illya left a giant gaping hole inside his chest and it edges out his lungs. No one knows this. No one notices. Even Gaby. Especially Gaby.

Gaby who is, first and foremost, Waverly’s agent. Gaby who he’d thought of as a friend until she’d had him removed from the field. Gaby who didn’t seem to notice or care that Illya was dead, that Illya had been dead for nearly eight years now. Gaby, to whom he no longer speaks.

Napoleon compensates for this with short sentences, clipped words that he spits out with no thought to how they’d be received. Waverly’s decision to place him in charge of training the new recruits was smart, for the agency. It weeds out the ones who would have normally died in the field during their first year. Napoleon is…

Napoleon has acquired a reputation for cruelty, strictness, danger. He’s grown mean. His sarcasm, once charming and witty, has taken on a nasty edge. He has always been excellent at finding every weakness, but now he takes to exploiting them. Illya would be appalled. This type of behavior was more befitting an agent of THRUSH than Napoleon Solo, but Napoleon can’t bring himself to care. Illya is dead and not there to be appalled. It matters so little anymore. 

Very little matters, Napoleon thinks, until one of the new recruits takes a liking to him. The boy, because at twenty that is what he still is, presses too close, leans into too far, asks unnecessary questions just to spend a little more time with Napoleon. Napoleon thinks that if Illya were here, they would both find this amusing. Illya is not here. Napoleon could not care less.

Until the stupid boy tries out his slight of hand on an internationally known thief. Napoleon had thought that everyone at the agency knew that he’d been a thief. A damn good thief too. But apparently no one told the new recruits. 

He suffers this farce of an attempt, until the boy reaches for Illya’s father’s watch, which has been sitting snuggly around his wrist since the funeral. He thinks perhaps he understands what Illya used to feel like. The tapping and the shaking at the explosive, violent rages. Napoleon can’t see. Everything has gone reddish and he can’t focus. Can’t control his own body. 

How dare the boy…How _dare_ he?

When he comes back to himself, the boy is laying in a heap on the floor and there’s blood on his hands. He finds out later, Waverly tells him, that he’s cracked the boy’s skull, broken three of his fingers and several ribs. The boy will be pissing blood for weeks from his damaged kidneys. 

Once he gets out of the hospital.

Which will only happen when the swelling in his brain goes down. 

If that happens, there should be no permanent damage. So all they have to do is wait and see.

Waverly stares at Napoleon over his spectacles, looking torn between horrified and disappointed.

Napoleon stares back, emotionless as he usually is. He can’t breath today. Waverly doesn’t care.

“What on earth did that boy do to provoke you like that? I have never seen anything like it. I watched the surveillance. I’ve never seen you like that before.”

Napoleon blinks, his jaw works for a moment, he looks away. “He tried to lift Peril’s father’s watch.”

Waverly stares at him before deflating back into his chair to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Good god.” There is a pause before he seems to get control of himself. He glares up at Napoleon. “He tried to steal your watch, so you put him in the hospital with possible brain damage?”

Napoleon shrugged. “He’ll be fine. And it was Illya’s watch.”

Waverly stares. Napoleon looks back placidly, eyes empty. Waverly stares some more. “Solo…Napoleon, Illya has been dead for a very long time. I realize that the two of you were good friends, but this is—“

Napoleon snorts. Waverly shuts up. “Good friends? Is that what you think? Well, then you must think I’m insane.” Waverly raises an eyebrow as if to agree. Napoleon laughs. It makes Waverly flinch. “Illya and I were…My god. So much more than friends. He’s been dead eight years, four months, and twenty five days, did you know that? I wasn’t there when he died. I couldn’t save him, so I don’t know how many hours. I never knew how many hours. No one ever told me what the time of death was and I…I couldn’t bring myself to steal the file. It would have the postmortem photographs in it. I couldn’t…” He swallows, tight and painful around the hole in his chest. He still can’t breath. He wonders how he’s going to survive like this. Wishes he’d been there to save Illya or die with him. The same thing he wishes every moment of every day.

Waverly blinks and his mouth drops open. “You loved him.”

Napoleon smiles and it’s all teeth and pain. “There is no past tense. I love him. I will always love him. I will never love anyone or anything else. I am no long capable of any other love, but his.”

This seems to shock Waverly. Napoleon does not understand why. The perversion of it has long since faded from his attention. He realizes that with Illya dead, no one else knows about them. What they were to each other. This strikes him as unbearable and he feels a prickle behind his eyes. 

He has never cried for Illya, he thinks. Could never bring himself to lance that wound, on the thin chance that it would heal. He refuses to betray Illya like that. Pain is all he ever deserves now. Illya is dead and Napoleon was not there.

His knees give out and his lands in the chair on the other side of Waverly’s desk. Waverly is gaping at him. He reaches up to touch his face and his fingers come away went. He’s crying. He can’t breath. His hands are shaking. He slides off the chair onto the floor and curls around his now-bent knees. He vaguely hears Waverly saying something into his intercom. Minutes pass.

Or maybe hours.

Napoleon can’t focus on anything, but the suddenly fresh loss of Illya. He’d almost lost his partner’s watch. The watch the Illya nearly killed an Italian for. The watch that cemented their partnership, their friendship, and ultimately their love. Shame, burning and sick, bubbles up inside him, filling the hole. He nearly lost Illya’s watch, to a recruit greener than he had been when he entered the army. He’d lost control and nearly beaten the boy to death. He still have no idea what stopped him.

Finally, a small hand lands on the back of his head. Not Waverly. Gaby. Who he hasn’t spoken to in years. Almost four now.

She is crouched down in front of him and there is pain and regret and sorrow in her eyes. “Oh, Napoleon. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He inhaled through his nose and blinks at her. “I loved him too. But not like that. Never like that. I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

Napoleon laughs, harsh. “Of course you didn’t. You’re disgusted by homosexuals.”

Gaby rears back as though she’d been struck. “Why would you say that? Why would you—“

“Gaby, this isn’t some sort of…I don’t know what you think this is. Illya and I are…were lovers. You told me, at least three separate times, how disgusting you find homosexuals. Why would we tell you?”

Gaby shakes her head and wraps her arms around Napoleon awkwardly. She’s small and he is not, but she angles herself and makes it work. “I love you, Napoleon. You were one of my best friends before you stopped talking to me. I lost both of you when Illya died. I don’t care what you were. I’m sorry I never knew.”

Napoleon jerks away from her and stands. “This isn’t about you. It was never about you.” He spits out and leaves the room. 

Leaving Waverly on edge at his desk and Gaby weeping on the floor.

Napoleon doesn’t talk after that, not to anyone but the recruits. And to them, only in the context of their lessons. The agency turns out the best spies the business has ever seen. Already hardened, even before they reach the field, because there is almost nothing out there that is more terrifying or more dangerous than Napoleon Solo.

The recruits whisper stories to each other about him, horrific things about his time with the CIA and then out in the field with UNCLE. A new girl asks if he’s the reason his partner is dead and the group she’s talking to back away from her quickly. For a long week, no one talks to her. Everyone is absolutely convinced that Napoleon is going to kill her. That he knows what she said. At the end of the week, she disappears. The class of recruits never hears from her again. Napoleon is, they are all convinced, especially cruel the following week.

One thing is true of all the stories. There is one thing that everyone knows: never touch Napoleon Solo’s watch.

No one ever does.


	12. Possessive Mirror Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I saw two separate prompts of this. One personally for me on tumblr and one on the kinkmeme.

“What the hell was that?” Napoleon hissed as soon as the bathroom door shut behind Illya. A semi-public restroom was probably not the best place to have this conversation but he could not bring himself to care. He’d had their mark! The man had been about to invite him home, when Illya had inserted himself into the situation. He’s snarled like a jilted lover and dug bruises into Napoleon’s shoulder, while the mark had turned skittish and scurried away. “I had him! You know that I had him!”

Illya twitched and flipped the lock on the bathroom door. “Was no good.”

“What? It would have taken roughly ten minutes for me to get what we needed once I was in that house! How is that ‘no good’?” Napoleon narrowed his eyes and took a step toward Illya, trying to force eye contact.

It worked, but the result was not what he’d expected. He’d thought Illya was angry, that something had gone wrong or perhaps, a little voice in the back of his mind whispered, that he hated homosexuals. But his eyes were molten. The pupils had blown wide, nearly swallowing all that lovely blue and there was jealousy in his face, not anger. Napoleon blinked and stared. 

“Was no good. He should not have been touching you. Laying his hands on you. Will get information another way. No one gets to touch you.”

Napoleon’s nostrils flared. “No one, hmm? Not even you, Illya? Because that’s what you’re implying, isn’t it? That no one gets to touch me because I’m yours? But I’m not, am I? I’m not yours.”

Illya snarled and before Napoleon could blink again, he found himself shoved against the far wall, standing on tiptoes and gasping into Illya’s face. Illya was pressed the entire length of his body, a hard thigh shoved between Napoleon’s legs and resting against his crotch. One of Illya’s enormous hands was at Napoleon’s collar, pulling off his tie and undoing the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt. The other was wrapped around Napoleon’s throat. He groaned, feeling the vibrations against Illya’s palm. “You are mine. You have been panting after me for months, Cowboy. Do not think I do not notice.” Illya bit down hard on the skin under his jaw, forcing his head back further.

Napoleon scoffed. “What? Now that I move on to someone else, now that I am _doing my job_ , now you want me? Before, when I made my interest perfectly plain, you rejected me out of hand. What? You only want people when they’re done with you?”

Illya laughed, bitter, and rocked his thigh up. Napoleon gasped and tried to stretch up with it, away from the pressure. “Done with me? The erection in your trousers calls you a liar. I was trying to keep things professional. I thought that getting involved would be mistake. Would make us soft.”

Illya slipped his hand up to Napoleon’s jaw and pulled Napoleon’s head back down, pressing a gentle kiss to the American’s mouth. Napoleon exhaled and went lax in Illya’s grip. “What changed?” His voice was hardly above a whisper.

Illya snarled again, lips pulling back from his teeth. “You are mine. You will not let others touch you.”

“I damn well will, if you don’t touch me yourself.”

“My pleasure, Cowboy.”

He stepped back, pulling Napoleon with him away from the wall. The building they were in was a semi-private home and the owners were hosting the party they’d been at. Which meant that there was a floor length mirror on the wall opposite the door. Illya eyed it and then turned back to Napoleon. Who stood perfectly still, watching him.

With a grin that was more feral than seductive, Illya stripped Napoleon of the unbuttoned shirt, waistcoat, and the accompanying jacket. Bare from the waist up, Napoleon inhaled sharply at the rough handling and licked his lips. Illya dropped the clothing to the floor and grabbed Napoleon by the shoulder, forcing him around to face the mirror.

They stood for a moment, looking at themselves in the glass. Napoleon’s shoulders were wider than Illya’s, his chest broader. Illya towered over him from behind, lean and hungry. His gaze trailed along the exposed skin. “Hands up. Hold the edges of the mirror.”

Napoleon froze for a moment, staring wide at Illya over his shoulder, before complying with the order. He braced his hands against the mirror and spread his legs. Illya grabbed his hips and pulled back, forcing Napoleon to bend at the waist. His head dropped to hang between his outstretched arms. Illya unbuttoned and unzipped his pants one-handed, the other he brought up to bury in Napoleon’s hair. He used his grip to yank the American’s head up, giving him no choice but to see the picture he made in the glass. 

Illya shoved his pants and shorts down his legs, stepping on the crotch to prompt Napoleon to step out of them. He was still wearing his brogues and dress socks. He thought he looked a bit stupid like that. The tent in Illya’s pants said different, but Napoleon had never felt so exposed before. Even the time he’d been caught by an entire dinner party full of guest, starkers and fucking the host’s daughter. Illya ignored the shoes and looked back up into the mirror. Napoleon closed his eyes in a vain attempt to hide from the heat and possession in that gaze.

The hand returned to his hair, tight enough to be painful. “Look at me, Cowboy. Do not close your eyes until I say.”

Napoleon’s eyes snapped open and he swallowed as Illya positioned himself at Napoleon’s ass. He wasn’t a virgin, by any means, but he hadn’t done this in a while and doing it raw? He wasn’t sure he could take Illya at all, never mind dry and without any prep. He was just about to open his mouth and point this out, when Illya dropped to his knees and Napoleon nearly swallowed his tongue.

Enormous hands spread the cheeks of Napoleon’s ass, exposing his fluttering hole. Illya exhaled over it, but didn’t move for a moment. Napoleon could feel heat building in his face. Embarrassment had never been a particular kink of his. Neither had exposure. But he was seriously reconsidering this where Illya Kuryakin was concerned. His cock was aching between his thighs and he was a second or two away from letting out the whine that was building in the back of his throat.

Napoleon let out a huff of breath and Illya buried his face between Napoleon’s cheeks, to lap softly at the ring of muscle, which turned the huff into a startled whimper.

Illya had obviously done this before. Napoleon was especially sensitive. He was building toward orgasm by the time Illya’s tongue actually breached his hole. A handful of stabs from that tongue and he was coming untouched in hard spurts over the mirror. Illya pulled back, chin smeared with saliva, and smirked. 

He stood and pulled something out of his pocket, but Napoleon was too busy shuddering with the last aftershock of pleasure to notice. However, when two lube slicked fingers buried themselves in his ass and pressed hard on his prostate, he noticed. His head jerked up so he could meet Illya’s eyes in the mirror. A thin tremor of over stimulation ran through him. Illya cocked a brow in question and stilled his hand. Napoleon breathed for a moment, riding the sensation, and then nodded.

He suspected he’d be crying by the end of this encounter. He wasn’t sure that he thought that was a bad thing.

Illya added another finger and rubbed circles into his prostate. Napoleon whined and whimpered as his spent cock decided it wasn’t quite done yet. By the time Illya added a fourth finger, Napoleon was hard again. Pain mixing with the pleasure. He wasn’t quite young enough to get fucked from one orgasm to the next anymore without some pain, but at the moment Napoleon wouldn’t trade one for the other.

His mouth was open and he was panting. Sweat slicked his hair and glistened on his face. His chest and neck strained with the grip he had on the mirror frame. Illya reached around to scratch red lines across Napoleon’s abdomen. He cupped the American’s balls, playing with them gently as he pulled out his fingers and replaced them with the blunt head of his lubed cock.

Before he pushed in, he paused, waiting for Napoleon to look up at his reflection. “Look at you, Cowboy. Look at how desperate you look. How needy. You came from nothing but my tongue already and you want me so badly that you’re hard already. Watch yourself as I fuck you. Look at what I can do to you. Only me.”

Napoleon shuddered, pressing back against Illya’s cock and nodded. “Yes. Please. I’m yours. Illya, anything. _Please_!” His voice was thin, reedy, and he sounded gutted. 

Illya grinned, toothy and feral again, and slammed into him. He moaned, loud and wild, as Illya bottomed out inside him and stayed put, pressed against Napoleon’s prostate. He didn’t move. Napoleon was writhing, trying simultaneously to get away from the pressure and to get more. It wasn’t enough and it was too much.

The hand on Napoleon’s balls vanished and reappeared in his hair. “I move when you watch. You look away, I stop moving. Understand?”

Napoleon choked, tried to nod, opened his eyes to look directly into the mirror to meet Illya’s gaze again. He hadn’t even realized that his eyes had closed. Illya slid out and back in, rocking gently. Before the pressure was too much, now it wasn’t nearly enough. Napoleon whined, writhed, could feel tears pressing out of his eyes as his cock ached. He strained to keep looking into the mirror.

Illya leaned forward to lick gently at the tears on Napoleon’s face. He let go of Napoleon’s hair and pet his hand down Napoleon’s chest. Teasing over his nipples and down to rest against his twitching cock. He didn’t stroke. He didn’t grip it. He merely laid his giant hand against Napoleon and left it there.

He did however pick up his pace. His hips snapped hard enough to force Napoleon’s feet a little further apart. To push him toward the mirror the moment he couldn’t keep his arms locked anymore. 

Napoleon was panting and keening high in his throat and straining to obey Illya’s directive. Illya watched him in the mirror, still fully clothed. He adjusted his angle just a bit and suddenly his zipper was scrapping against Napoleon’s exposed flesh. Its sharp bite, combined with Illya’s strokes against his sweet spot and Illya’s hot palm laying gently against his cock, was finally enough to send Napoleon over the edge again. 

He came, with a sound that would have been a scream if he had enough breath in his lungs for it. Illya chuckled and fucked him through it. Didn’t stop fucking him, even when he was completely spent and his muscles had gone to jelly.

Illya was still fucking into him. Still hitting his prostate on every stroke. Napoleon couldn’t stand it. It hurt. God, it hurt so good, but he’d come twice, back to back, and he needed to get away from the pressure, the pleasure, the pain. His fingers scrambled uselessly against the glass, as he pushed into Illya’s hand on his hip and away from Illya’s cock. He was squirming, accidentally rubbing his stinging cock against Illya’s hand, which was still simply cupping it innocently.

He was crying properly now and he was a mess and it hurt. Illya kept fucking him. 

After a moment of too much sensation to form coherent thought, Napoleon looked up into the mirror.

He was utterly wrecked. His lips were swollen and a hot pink. His cock was an angry red, what of it he could see around Illya’s hand. He was sweaty and damp and looked so fucked out, but Illya wouldn’t stop fucking him.

He didn’t even have the energy to squirm anymore, so he gave up, went limp. Illya kept fucking him. Each stroke hit right where Illya meant it to and garnered a wounded little noise that he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. He’s a hole for Illya’s pleasure. He shuddered at the thought.

Finally, _finally_ , Illya’s strokes stuttered and he came, hot and wet inside Napoleon. Who didn’t even have the strength to clench around him. Illya pulled out and bent down to examine the mess he’d made. He smiled, possessive and proud, and licked over Napoleon’s puffy hole. Napoleon jerked weakly and whimpered, but didn’t bother trying to get away. 

When Illya let go of him, Napoleon slid easily to the floor, not even looking to see if he was going to land on his suit or the spatters of his own come. He ended up sprawled in the latter. 

Illya watches him with a soft expression in his eyes. “Come on, Cowboy. Time to get dressed. We have a party to attend.”

Napoleon’s head lolled on his neck as he turned to look up at Illya. “Party? Peril, I smell like sex. I’m a mess. I’m exhausted.”

Illya nodded. “And? Mission must go on. Dress.”

Arguing was futile. Especially when Illya had a point. Napoleon was going to kill him for this later. He struggled to his feet and reached for his clothing. As he bent over, Illya moved forward and hooked a single finger into his loose hole. He choked on his breath and nearly stumbled. “Christ. If you want me coherent for this, you need to stop doing things like that.” He pointed out as Illya tugged gently at the abused muscle.

Illya hummed and let go. Napoleon fumbled into his clothing. Had to button his waistcoat twice, when he did it wrong the first time. Everyone at the party was going to know that he’d been fucked in the bathroom. He’d got Illya’s come sliding thickly down the back of his thighs and his own smeared across his back where he landed in it. His eyes were gritty with tears and sweat.

He felt like he was going to collapse. Illya smiled at him. Napoleon kissed him because he didn’t know what else to do, and went in search of coffee. He needed the caffeine boost.


	13. The Wrestling Scene, Napollya style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I was originally asked to write "the "wrestling" scene only gabby doesn't pass out"
> 
> Except gabollya is my notp, so I offered to do a Napollya version. the-russian-and-the-cowboy (not the original prompter) took me up on the offer and asked for that. So here you go.

The rooms that had been arranged for them abutted. There was a handy door linking them, which meant that Gaby could claim one of the bedrooms for herself. Which didn’t actually matter, since they were both identical: a single oversized king bed in each. Someone was sleeping on the couch and Napoleon sighed when he considered Peril’s towering bulk. The Russian wouldn’t fit on the couch. Now, Gaby was in that other room, behind a locked door, leaving him and the Red Peril alone together. Napoleon, knowing this would be the inevitable outcome, earlier had sadly turned away the concierge, beautiful though she was. Without sex to relax him, Napoleon had to find some other amusement.

Peril seemed to be playing chess against himself. Napoleon could play, was in fact quite good, but he wouldn’t be sharing that fact just yet. Instead, he snagged a bottle of vodka and two glasses before going to drop onto the couch. “Have a drink, Peril. You’re terribly tense.”

Peril’s nostrils flared. “No. Thank you.”

Napoleon cocked a brow. He filled both glasses and held one out to Peril. “Either you help me finish this or I drink it all myself. I don’t care which.”

Peril eyed the glass, but shook his head. “Is unprofessional to drink on job. So, no. Thank you.”

Napoleon shrugged, threw back one of the glasses, and then settled into the couch with the other. He watched Peril play chess for several quiet moments. “Are you playing the Mikhail Botvinnik/Bobby Fischer match from last year?”

Peril’s head came up slowly and he stared at Napoleon. “How do you know this?”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow and smirked. “I’m not an idiot, Peril. I play chess. And I pay attention to international politics. The way Fischer was kicking up a stink about the Russians ‘fixing’ the game a couple years ago? I pay attention. He’s a sore loser. Botvinnik is just the better player.”

Peril frowned, his face darkening in confusion. “You would say such a thing about an American?”

Napoleon frowned back. “I don’t care what nationality he is. He’s a sore loser and Botvinnk is the best player I’ve ever seen. And just because I’m American doesn’t mean I think my country is always right, simply because it is America. I hope you realize that I’m more intelligent than that.”

The frown turned to a scowl. “And I am not? Because I would not say such disloyal things about my country means I am stupid?”

Napoleon wasn’t sure where this was coming from, but he shook his head. “Now, Peril. I never said anything like that. And it’s not disloyal to America to say that one person who just happens to be American isn’t the best at something. I never said anything about your loyalty. What’s go you so on edge?”

Peril looked away for a moment, before standing up. “I am going to bed. Please do not get drunk. We have work to do.”

Napoleon laughed and stood. “Peril, what we have to do tomorrow, I could do manage blind drunk or hungover enough to fell a lesser man. Don’t worry about me. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Peril turned narrowed eyes on him. “May not be first time, but it will not happen while we are partnered. I do not work with drunks.”

Napoleon raised his hands in surrender and placed the glass of vodka back on the table. He’d barely made a dent in the contents of the bottle. “Happy now?”

Peril’s face twitched. “No. Good night.”

Napoleon narrowed his eyes and reached out to grab Peril’s arm. “Hey, what’s your—“

Apparently unexpected touching was something of a trigger for Peril, because he was in motion as soon as Napoleon’s hand landed on him. He grabbed Napoleon’s wrist and yanked him forward. Pivoting, he slammed Napoleon down to the couch next to them and pinned him there. 

Napoleon’s face went blank for a split second before a cruel smirk played at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, so you want to wrestle then?”

Peril frowned in confusion. “I did not say—“

Napoleon surged up off the couch, hooking a leg around one of Peril’s to throw him off balance and reaching up to break his hold. They landed on the table, scattering Peril’s chess match and splintering the wood.

The fight that followed was short and brutal, though they were both pulling their punches and avoiding faceshots. It ended with half the hotel room trashed and Peril flat on his back with Napoleon pressing him into the floor.

Napoleon’s hands were braced on Peril’s shoulders, pinning him down, and his knees were on either side of Peril’s hips, straddling him. Peril was blinking up at Napoleon, breathing heavily and hands wrapped around Napoleon’s wrists, as though to yank them away. They stayed like that, frozen and staring at one another, for a moment. 

Then Napoleon shifted and pressed back a fraction, bringing himself in contact with Peril’s groin. Both of their eyes went wide at the contact. Peril was hard in his pants, which causes Napoleon’s own cock to stir and a smile to curl across his face. He leaned down, very slowly, to press an openmouthed kiss to Peril’s lips.

Illya didn’t push him away, didn’t punch him, didn’t turn his head in disgust. Instead, his hips shifted restlessly. Napoleon smiled into the kiss and ground down. Illya gasped into his mouth and bucked up. 

Napoleon pulled back to meet Illya’s eyes. “So we trashed this half of the hotel room. What do you say to messing the other half up too?”

Illya laughed, a little breathless and blinked up at him. “More wrestling, Cowboy?”

Napoleon shook his head and dipped down to nip at Illya’s neck. “Not at all, Illya. I’ve got something much more fun in mind.”

Illya lifted his chin, tilting his head to offer more of his neck to Napoleon. 

Napoleon was going to enjoy this international cooperation much more than he initially thought.

He stood and pulled Illya with him, before leading him by the hand into the bedroom. He wanted to know what noises the Red Peril let slip when he was out of control with lust, rather than anger. He hoped Gaby wore earplugs to bed because he had every intention of finding out.


	14. To Catch A Thief (kind of?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this is a fill for Ravenibnflight's prompt: All of these 60's references made me remember an old Carey Grant movie (of course, if it's Carey Grant-they'd have to be old) 'To Catch a Thief'. Maybe one of the boys was a thief and Waverly or Sanders is using him to catch the other? Maybe have one of them lying in wait for the other?
> 
> It's short, mostly because the prompt caused some cognitive dissonance. I wanted to make it like the film, but I've never seen the film and I kept getting stuck on that. So I did a quick fill. Hope it works :)

Napoleon had the patience of a saint. He had to; he was internationally infamous art thief. They’d called him the Cowboy, because he’d been the best of the best, reckless as anyone, and damn near impossible to catch. A stupid, stupid mistake, a pretty face, had been his downfall. Now he worked for the CIA. Once again he was the best of the best. The perfect agent, a crack shot.

But it’s this history, the story of the Cowboy and his perfectly sticky fingers, that placed him where he was. 

Which was on the roof of a building, across from an art museum that was running an exhibition of famous royal jewelry. Much too gauche for Napoleon’s own taste, but he’d admit that they were worth a fortune. He had a rifle that shot tranquilizers resting on his shoulder and a heat-sensing scope pressed to his eye. 

The CIA had sent him because he was a thief and what better one to catch a thief than another thief?

He sighed inaudibly and settled deeper against the roof. He knew where this thief, this Red Peril, would be entering and where he would be leaving. So he primed his gun and he waited. 

Jealous bubbled in his gut. He’d traded his freedom for a leash, but as he neared the end of his tenure at the CIA that leash grew shorter and shorter. He was certain that they would not be letting him go, when his time was served. This Red Peril, the jewel thief he was tracking, was free. And excellent at his work. For all the rumors put him at six and a half feet tall, he slipped in and out of anywhere he liked as easily as breathing. Napoleon envied him that.

He waited.

And fantasized about abandoning his leash and joining the Red Peril. 

He’s jolted out of his daydream, by the appearance of a figure on the rooftop across. Eying it, he decided he was intensely grateful for the double dose of tranqs he used. The Red Peril easily had several inches on Napoleon himself. The rumors appeared to be true. He was a bear of a man. Napoleon wondered idly what he looked like.

He waited until the figure is leaping across the gap between the buildings. His shot was true, as it always is, and it clipped the giant in the shoulder. The man made it across, but went down as soon as he hit. Napoleon stood and made his way quickly across the roof. A giant of a man wasn’t going to be staying down long. He tied his arms and legs and sat back to wait.

It didn’t take long. It was barely five minutes before the Red Peril was stirring. He blinked lovely blue eyes up at Napoleon and tensed. 

“I know your face. You are Cowboy.”

Napoleon blinked, shock slipping onto his face. “Yes. I am. That’s what you recognize me for?”

The Red Peril frowned and shrugged. “You are the best. I admire your work, Cowboy.”

Napoleon felt a grin spread across his face. He thought of Sanders, the smug bastard who held his leash. 

“I was meant to be bringing you in.”

“In to where, exactly?”

Napoleon shrugged. “The CIA. They bought my prison sentence. But see, I have a better idea.”

The Red Peril blinked and leaned forward. “I am listening.”

“Well, Peril, it’s like this. The CIA has my balls on a leash. That leash is held by a very short bastard of a man. I don’t like him. He hates me. I’m a thief, I’m gay, I’m everything he despises in humanity, I think. But I’m also the best the CIA has. I don’t see him cutting that leash when my term has been served. Which is coming up fast. So, I thought I could cut the leash myself.” The Red Peril tilted his head a little, but didn’t say anything. “You are very good. I admire that immensely. I’d never steal anything so gauche as unset jewels, but I think we’d make a good team. Especially since I’ve kept up with all my old contacts. Fences and the like. So, what do you say? I cut those bindings, I dump my tracker, and we disappear for a bit. Together.”

The Red Peril stared at him for several long moments. “My name is Illya. Illya Kuryakin. I am former SVR. Now I am thief. You are former thief, now CIA. I think we make _excellent_ team.” He paused and smirked. “It helps that you are pretty, Cowboy.”

Napoleon laughed and leaned forward. “My name is Solo. Napoleon Solo.”

Illya arched a brow. “Not James Bond?”

Napoleon snorted, weaving his arms around Illya to cut the zips ties. “Okay, yes. I should probably not introduce myself like that, but it always gets a laugh. And people usually call me Solo after.”

Illya nodded and brought his newly freed hands around to catch Napoleon’s face. “I think, Cowboy, we will be good together, but I also think I will call you Napoleon.” He said it definitively, brooking no argument, before he leaned forward and kissed Napoleon hard on the mouth.

Napoleon moaned softly, as those big hands curled tightly in his hair, and responded beautifully.

Yes, he thought, they’d make an excellent team. And fuck the CIA anyway. They should have known better than to send a thief to catch a thief.


	15. Illya Is Never Wrong. Except This Time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt from Anon: napollya au prompt if you are still taking them, illya likes napoleon a lot, nope he loves him. but he knows that his partner isn't gay. illya thinks so and illya knows he is never wrong. so he doesn't tell napoleon how he feels. but one day it gets too much for illya to see napoleon with a new woman every time. so he leaves. but illya was for the first time in his life wrong, he couldn't read solo. angst with a happy ending cause illya/napoleon belong together.

There is danger in being what Illya was, even on this side of the Iron Curtain. Back home, in the Soviet Union, he would be put to death if his handlers found out. Here, in the West, he would be jailed for a bit or fined or laughed at. A lesser man might be beaten, but Illya is too large and too intimidating for anyone prone to that kind of behavior to look at twice. And yet, there is still danger. Especially in acting on his…proclivities. One danger, on danger that keeps him awake at night, that twists his stomach in on itself, is the possibility of rejection. That, if Napoleon found out, he would display the usual distaste of these Western men. He would be snide or cutting or polite. He would create distance between them slowly or he would drop Illya immediately, worrying that he would be labeled by association.

One thing that Illya knows for certain is that Napoleon would reject him, if he knew. Because Napoleon, womanizing Napoleon who had slept with more women in the year or two they’d been partnered than Illya had spoken to in his entire life, Napoleon loves women. Napoleon is not like Illya. 

Perhaps it wouldn’t be because Illya was bent. Perhaps Napoleon would be willing to overlook it, ignore it. But the other thing? The other thing would certainly send Napoleon packing.

Because Illya is in love. With Napoleon.

Illya is certain it is no more than he deserves: to be doomed to love a man who loved women. To love a man who would hate him if he knew. It was hopeless and it made Illya sick to his stomach to contemplate. 

Each woman that Napoleon brought back to his room, each pair of panties Illya found in some unexpected place, each moan and grunt and sigh and scream, each one drove another splinter of ice into Illya’s heart. Ice because it all leaves him cold, shivering with want and need and desperate aching love. Cold with despair. 

His hands used to be the coldest part of his body. Now, Illya is convinced that it is his chest, the hollowed out cavity that once housed his heart, that is the coldest part.

When Napoleon takes Gaby to his bed, Illya cannot take the pain. The thought that Gaby can have what he so desperately wanted. That Gaby will never realize what she held in her hands, what she discarded. Because it only happens the one time. He hears them. Her ring is still bugged and she forgets to take it off sometimes. He hears them laugh about it the next morning. Agree never to repeat the performance, “Excellent though it was,” Napoleon laughs.

Illya calls Waverly that morning, requests a transfer. Waverly agrees, but only for one case, to see if the dynamic is better. UNCLE is his best team and he is reluctant to split them up.

He packs his bag, while Gaby is hunting for her clothing across Napoleon’s hotel room floor, and leaves. 

It is, it turns out, the best decision he has made in his life.

Because Napoleon does not take abandonment well.

The mission is finished. His chest aches with cold, but at least he will not see Napoleon bring some woman back to his room for a celebratory evening. The chess set is out, but he hasn’t bothered to touch it. There is a half-empty bottle of vodka on the table, but the alcohol has done nothing to dull the pain.

There is a knock at his door. It opens before he can even rise to his feet. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” Napoleon stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. There is so much anger in his voice, his body, his eyes that it sends Illya reeling.

“Waverly gave me mission.”

“Oh yes.” He enters the room and slams the door behind him. “Oh yes, I heard all about the mission Waverly gave you. The one you requested. The one that is a test run for you _abandoning me_ and you didn’t even have the courage to come tell me yourself. You just disappeared. I thought you’d been taken. I thought that THRUSH had got you and maybe you were dead. Illya, how could you do that?”

Illya blinks at him, confused by the vehemence, the echoed pain in his voice. He is hearing things, he knows. “What would it have mattered, if I had been?”

Napoleon looks like he’s been slapped. “Excuse me?”

Illya shakes his head and empties his glass down his throat. “What would it matter? What do I matter? You and Gaby would have gone on. Completely assignments, fucking each other and whoever else takes your fancy. I don’t matter. I don’t fit. I never do. So I left. Is better to leave now, before you—“ He clicks his mouth shut, realizing what he’d been about to let slip.

Napoleon’s nostrils flare and he narrows his eyes. “Before I what? Is this because you…You know I would _never_ …I’m not sure how you even…Look. Illya. I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. I know that that str of things isn’t…the Russian way. But I’ve tried not to let it effect how we interact in the field. I thought I’d succeeded. Obviously, I didn’t. Tell me what I need to do to make this okay? Tell me what will make you come back and I will do it. Please. I don’t…”

Illya frowns. The babbling monologue did not make sense. “What are you talking about, Cowboy?”

Napoleon sucks in a sharp breath. “Um…nothing? Never mind. It was stupid. I’m sorry. But please, Illya. Just…come home, would you?”

Illya shakes his head and Napoleon seems to crumble around the edges. “I cannot come back. I cannot see…And then you and Gaby…”

Napoleon frowns a little and brings his eyes back up to meet Illya’s. There is fear in them. “This is because of Gaby? She…she promised me that there was nothing between you. She _promised_ me. My god. Illya, I would have never…I’m so sorry. I have no idea.”

Illya shakes his head again, frustrated. If he is going to be leaving the team anyway, he might as well drive Napoleon away for good. That way, if both of them request a transfer, Waverly will have to agree. “No, Cowboy. It had nothing to do with Gaby. It is you.”

Napoleon flinches. “I told you that I’m sorry. Look, if my feelings for you are going to be such a problem, I—“

“What?” Illya blinks hard, certain he heard that wrong.

“Um…Is that not what you meant? You…I…”

Illya is on his feet halfway across the room. “I am homosexual.” He says it outright, definitively.

Napoleon’s eyes flutters and his breath freezes up. “Oh. Oh lord. Please, Illya…Please, don’t play with me.”

Illya takes the last step into Napoleon’s personal space. He reaches up to grasp Napoleon’s face, running a thumb over the heavy red of his mouth. Napoleon has tears resting against his lashes. He looks as though Illya has cracked open his chest and scooped out everything inside. He looks _broken_.

“I am homosexual. I have always been homosexual. I am not playing. I am telling. Also, I am in love with you.”

Napoleon chokes and the tears spill over. “Please.”

Illya leans down and presses a soft kiss to that lush mouth. Napoleon sobs against his lips. He pulls back. “I love you, Napoleon Solo. I could not take seeing you with all those women. I could not.”

Napoleon brings his hands up and tangles them in the fabric of Illya’s turtleneck. “I’ve loved you since the moment that you flipped that table in Berlin. God, Illya, you’re so beautiful.” He presses a hand to Illya’s chest. “I can’t imagine myself without you anymore. I don’t want to. Every day I wake up to the knowledge that this is one more day passed and one more day closer to the moment we will never see each other again. Sanders will recall me or Oleg will recall you or my term will be up and Waverly will drop me or one of us will die. The woman are just…warm bodies to try and drive away the cold. I thought that you…I was so sure that you would never…”

Illya laughs and it sounds sad. “I suppose we were both wrong.”

He leans down for another kiss and Napoleon meets it hungrily. 

Later, the following morning, Illya calls Waverly again and tells him that he must have been feverish to try and break up such an effective team. Waverly laughs and asks him what Napoleon had said to convince him. Illya smiles softly, runs light fingertips over Napoleon’s naked skin just to watch him shiver, and sidesteps the question. Waverly laughs again.

“I’ve got a two bedroom apartment for you boys, right next door to Miss Teller, here in London. I think you’ve earned a bit of a break. Oh and tell Solo that the both of you are UNCLE now. I’ve take you permanently. the CIA cut the leash. So did the KGB. Welcome to the West, Agent Kuryakin.”

Illya frowns into the phone. “Can you not reach Solo yourself?”

Waverly snorts. “Don’t be coy, Kuryakin. I can here him breathing. I’m not stupid. Just keep it out of the office. Your flight leaves in four hours. Miss Teller will meet you at your destination. Don’t be late and good luck.”

Illya blinks and stares at the phone in his hand for longs minutes. Napoleon shifts beside him and wraps a hand around his waist. “Waverly’s bent too. Or he want in school. He’s probably grown out of it, by now. Some men do. Or Some men are like me. They never grow out of it, but they like women too, so they ignore it.” Napoleon mumbles this into his hip. “He’s not going to judge. Anyway, he said four hours. That gives me two to work with. Come down here, so I can show you how much I love you.”

Illya thinks that he’s never been so happy to be wrong in all his life. He hung up the phone and sinks back into the bed.


	16. My Soulmatch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I would love to see a soulmate trope fic where everyone is connected to their potential soulmate via the invisible red string/thread of fate. Napoleon has the rare ability to see the red string of fate that is connecting people and therefore able to be quite an effective matchmaker for his colleagues etc. When he met Illya for the first time in Berlin Napoleon saw that his own red string of fate is connected to Illya but he does not believe that he would fall in love with Illya because Napoleon had never been attracted to males before and Illya seems more interested in Gaby (who at that moment has no red string of fate yet). However as Napoleon spent more time with Illya as partners in UNCLE he slowly fell in love with Illya yet believe his love is unrequited. Cue lots of angst and pining but happy ending please? 
> 
> Or
> 
> Napoleon is a Weaver, able to see other people's soulthreads, but none of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For http://archiveofourown.org/users/elenyar/pseuds/elenyar

Being a Weaver had never been a problem for Napoleon. In fact, in his line of work, knowing specific emotional attachments between people was an asset. It allowed him to manipulate situations much more easily.

The fact that, as a Weaver, he was unable to see people’s emotional attachments to him had never proven to be a problem either.

And then he met Illya Kuryakin. And it all got shot to hell.

He’d never seen a golden thread before. The mark of a soulmatch. So he didn’t know whether it was possible that it only went one way. But the longer he spent in Illya’s company, the more he was certain that the golden thread that attached him to the hulking Russia was a one-way street.

Something deep inside his chest ached every time he caught sight of the thread. He had never minded being a Weaver, but right now? He detested his ability. With every smile that Gaby and Illya shared, with every bantering word, with every sidelong look that Illya shot his way, Napoleon hated himself just a little more.

It had begun to affect his work, he knew, but couldn’t stop. 

The entire situation came to a head roughly seven months from the end of that first mission in Rome. The target was a human trafficking ring with ties to THRUSH and the entire mission shouldn’t have taken more than a few hours. In, get intel, out, leave destruction in your wake. 

Except Napoleon had blown their cover. He hadn’t managed to drag his attention away from Illya enough to focus on his mark. The man had noticed and it had all gone to hell from there. 

Now Napoleon was hanging from the ceiling, stripped to his briefs, and bleeding sluggishly. Illya was gone. Gaby was gone. It was very unlikely that they’d come back for him. Why would they bother? He’d blown the mission himself and he’d been a liability for weeks. 

No, he considered as his focus faded and his vision swam, it was better this way. For everyone involved.

“Tell us who sent you.”

Napoleon blinked up at the thug who was holding his head up with a too-sharp grip on his hair. The question was in English. He answered in Russian, his words mumbled and slurring. “The Tsar.”

No comprehension dawned in the thug’s face. A burst of pain flared along Napoleon’s jaw and he groaned a little. “No the face, you bastard.” This time, the words were in Japanese. 

It was almost funny, Napoleon thought, that he seemed to have lost control of which language he spoke in. 

“Listen, you cocksucker. We’ll be here for as long as it takes. You’re gonna tell me who sent you. Or…” the Thug gestured behind him. There was a little coal stove sitting in one corner of the cavernous room. Napoleon thought it might be a warehouse. The stove had a poker sitting in it. Napoleon frowned at it. “Or you and my little friend over there are going to get intimately acquainted.”

Oh.

That’s what the poker was doing in the stove.

As way to die, that? That was not one that Napoleon would prefer. Fuck, this was going to hurt.

He let his eyes slide shut again. It didn’t help. His mind supplied him with an image of the stove. He could feel the thugs fingers at his hip, slipping into the waistband of his underwear. He showed out a breath and went limp.

“Fine. If that’s how you want it. You like that big Russian meathead fucking you. Let’s see how you like this.”

His briefs were yanked down. He didn’t open his eyes. He could hear the thug pull the poker from the stove and…

The golden thread blazed to life behind his eyelids. His eyes snapped open. He jerked his head up. Illya was standing in the doorway. His hands were shaking and his eyes promised pain beyond imagining. 

The thug froze. “How’d you…”

Illya’s mouth curled. His eyes went flat at the sight of Napoleon’s nude form. “You will regret the day your mother birthed you, when I am finished.” He murmured in Russian.

While the thug couldn’t understand the words, the tone was clear. Even Napoleon shivered. He floated away then, his arms screaming and his vision blotted out by the gold. He’d never seen it so strong.

Sometime later, he opened his eyes to find Illya’s hands on his face. The Russian himself seemed to be attempting to bring Napoleon back to consciousness through sheer force of will. Napoleon wondered if it worked.  
“Cowboy, are you alright?”

Napoleon forced a smile to stretch his lips. The bottom one slip and blood slipped down his chin. He wondered if Illya realized he was still speaking in Russian. “I’m fine, Peril. Why’d you come back?”

Illya frowned. “For you. You are my partner. I would not…I could not abandon you like that. Beyond that, you are…my friend.”

There was something…unsettled about the way he pronounced the word friend.

Napoleon rolled his eyes up to meet Illya’s gaze. “You’re a good man, Illya Kuryakin. You should have left me to die.”

“Why?”

“Because it would hurt less.” Napoleon hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but now he couldn’t take it back. He figured he really shouldn’t be talking right now anyway. He’d been awake for days and couldn’t seem to control his mouth.

“Hurt? Are you hurt? What did he—“

“Not what I meant. Not nearly. Broken bones and knife wounds heal. A shredded heart can’t.”

“Cowboy, you aren’t making sense. Explain this to me.”

“I’m a Weaver, Illya. I can see connection-threads. I can see soulmatches.”

Illya blinked, waiting. Napoleon didn’t continue. It was taking most of his energy just to stay awake.

“This, I knew. Does it cause you pain?”

Napoleon barked a short laugh that ended in a wet sounding cough. He was still nude and still hanging from the ceiling. Illya hadn’t thought to cut him down. Or pull his briefs back up. “Yeah. It causes me pain. Every time I look at you it causes me pain. You’re my soulmatch, but I can see the red love and the black lust that connects you to Gaby.”

Illya’s eyes rounded and he exhaled softly. “You love me, then?”

Napoleon snorted and sagged against his restraints, putting more pressure on his shoulders. Now the screaming in his muscles had moved to his back and shoulders. “Of course I fucking love you.”

“Good.” Illya said and cut him down. “Because I love you as well.”  


He caught Napoleon, when the shorter man would have collapsed to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if this is shitty. I haven't written in some time (as I'm sure you're aware) and I usually don't read or write soulmate fics. BUT! I am back and I am writing...something at least?


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